The Shape of Things To Come
by Magic Crafter
Summary: Katherine of Aragon's son Prince Henry survives his infancy, with far-reaching historical consequences. Serious AU. Incomplete.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** So, this is the "surprise" story. The idea may be a little cliche, but I'm still playing with the plot in my mind. Several famous (and infamous) Tudor ladies will take center stage in a few chapters. I wasn't sure how this chapter would turn out until I was finished, or even if it would become more than one chapter, but I'm pretty happy with it thus far. Please keep in mind that this is a fanfiction for the TV show, and thus not everything will be strictly based around historical dates and facts. I'll probably alter ages somewhat as the story continues. Please R&R and tell me what you think! =]

**Rating: **PG-13

**Plot Summary: **English history, as well as the history of Protestantism and the Catholic Church, takes a dramatic turn when Prince Henry, the firstborn of Henry VIII and Queen Katherine of Aragon, lives beyond his infancy.

**Disclaimer: **All of this belongs to Showtime. I'm making no money off of this.

**A/N II: **I don't mean to sound like a bitch or anything here, but for heaven's sake, I got a five on my AP English Language and Composition exam, and I have an A in AP Literature. If, by chance, there **are** big grammatical mistakes I missed when editing, I would love someone to PM me or something and point them out. No one has _ever _"bashed me" for my "poor" grammar because I _do _care about having proper grammar. It makes or breaks writing. So I hope my readers forgive me for being annoyed, but pointing out that someone has a lack of grammar skills and proceeding not to provide examples or further insight isn't exactly constructive criticism.

* * *

**New Year's Day, 1511  
Whitehall Palace, London**

King Henry the Eighth was the richest and most influential man in England. His father, who had literally lifted his crown out of the mud of a battlefield, had been miserly and left him a large fortune.

And through his brother, Arthur, Henry had inherited something else: the hand of a beautiful and intelligent woman in marriage. Princess Catalina of Aragon, the youngest Infanta of Spain and the favorite daughter of King Ferdinand, her marriage to the Prince of Wales had secured a powerful alliance. A fledgling dynasty could not hope to do better…and when Arthur had died of tuberculosis barely six months into their marriage, Catalina, now called Katherine, had been stranded in a foreign land whose language she hardly spoke.

But finally, after seven long years of waiting, everything had changed. Henry the Seventh had finally died, after inflicting the chance of marrying his younger son, of marrying himself, and of being shipped back to Spain upon his widowed daughter-in-law. None of the possibilities came to pass. Katherine's father refused to pay the missing half of her dowry, thus leaving her in destitution in England.

As soon as his father had died, Henry had seized the opportunity, going to his brother's pretty widow and asking her to be his bride. She _had_ once been Arthur's wife, but she was witty and well-liked among the English people. _He_ certainly liked her.

He had since the day she'd come into London as Princess Catalina. Henry, then Prince Harry, Duke of York, had escorted her happily to her wedding. Perhaps he'd even been a little envious of his elder brother. Not only would he become King someday, despite being weaker and less intelligent than Harry, he had the good fortune to marry an attractive, spirited girl as well. Harry would never have either, he supposed: his destiny and duty were to serve God in his Church.

Prince Harry had grown into an energetic seventeen-year-old. He had no qualms whatsoever about marrying Katherine, and, once the Pope sent his dispensation allowing the union, she had none either. The people of London celebrated the marriage raucously. God had replaced their conniving, bad-tempered King with a much handsomer, kinder one. And He had also blessed them with a devout and beautiful Queen.

None of them could be as overjoyed as Henry when Katherine informed him that she was pregnant with their first child almost immediately following their wedding. The whole court waited and held its breath, but in the beginning of 1510, Catherine delivered a stillborn girl. Henry felt only a little dismay. He comforted his wife, held jousts and masques to cheer her, and all the while paraded himself as "Sir Loyal Heart," proudly flaunting her favor as a sign of his unrelenting love. Blind to any other woman's charms, Henry continued to visit Katherine's bed, and by April she was with child again.

This time, Henry assured himself, nothing would go wrong. Plenty of women suffered stillbirths. Neither he nor Katherine was at fault. But tension ran high as Katherine approached her lying-in. Finally, as December approached, she and her ladies tucked themselves away in the Queen's chambers. Few men aside from the physicians and Henry himself were allowed to enter, but once Her Majesty went into labor, even his presence would be restricted. He spent many mornings on his knees in the royal chapel.

_Please, Lord, _Henry prayed, _please grant me a son. Grant England a prince and a future King!_

The Christmas celebrations were subdued without Queen Katherine to preside over them. Henry took it in stride, but even he seemed overly anxious. He danced only occasionally with his sister Margaret and chatted only half-heartedly with Charles Brandon.

Henry was at mass the morning of New Year's Day praying silently for a son and for Katherine's health. The priest's Latin drone washed over him, but he only heard a word here and there.

_Oh Lord…_

Footsteps pounded outside the chapel doors. His brows creased slightly and he wondered vaguely who could be running…

…_bless us with a healthy boy…_

Someone was attempting to beat down the door. Henry was startled out of his reverie, swiveling to face the chapel doors. They had been thrown open with a _bang! _Margaret glanced in his direction, looking scandalized. He ignored her, as he was often wont to do. Charles Brandon stood there, clutching a stitch in his side. He panted, his other hand holding onto the doorframe to support him. But no one could be blind to the look of wild joy in Brandon's eyes.

"Your Majesty! The Queen is delivered!" he gasped, grinning.

For a moment, Henry just stared at his friend. Had someone told him she was in labor? They must have done, but for the life of him, he couldn't actually remember that conversation. Or perhaps no one had bothered to seek him out. He hardly processed his anger, and instead crossed the chapel floor with several long strides, reaching out to clutch Brandon by the shoulders. He felt like shaking the news out of them.

"Well?" he demanded. "Well, Charles, what is it?!"

Brandon laughed breathlessly, "A boy, Your Majesty! Her Majesty is delivered of a healthy son!"

Henry laughed wildly himself and threw his arms around Brandon, practically strangling him. Brandon smacked him on the back heartily by way of congratulations. Finally, the King released him and started off down the corridor. He broke into a run halfway to his destination. He was already stricken speechless by this news, but by the time he arrived in the antechamber of his wife's bedchamber, he was breathing so hard and fast that he could not have uttered a word if he had tried. The ladies all curtsied, and Katherine's door was opened for him. He stepped in, feeling light-headed and weak-kneed, and there was his beautiful Queen, who looked quite tired but radiantly happy.

She held a big, pink-faced infant, wrapped securely in clean, warm blankets. He nestled further into his little nest and into his mother's arms, stretching out a perfect, tiny hand and yawning widely, making a sound Henry might have expected from a baby bird. His heart skipped several beats.

_My boy,_ he thought delightedly. _My son!_

Katherine wrenched her eyes away from her baby and settled them on her husband. He smiled a brilliant smile and a moment later, he stood by her side. "Darling, you have made me the happiest man in Christendom," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She felt warm, almost feverish, but he supposed it was only a side effect of giving birth to such a large, healthy-looking child.

With a Prince finally gracing the royal nursery, the last thing Henry wanted to think of was losing his son's beloved mother.

She balanced the newborn tenderly in the crook of her arm, and with her free hand patted the bed beside her, signaling for him to sit. The ladies who were attending the Queen had been forgotten; though they remained locked in their curtsies, signs of respect and deference to the now three-person royal family, they may as well have been invisible. Henry had eyes only for Katherine and for their son. He quite willingly took a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching out and stroking some of her dark hair away from her lovely face.

"Our little Prince is in need of a name," she pointed out softly. Her thick Spanish accent, which many had considered vulgar when she'd married Prince Arthur, sounded to Henry like an angel's song. "What shall we call him?"

Henry gazed down into the face of his firstborn. He'd immediately considered naming the child Arthur in honor of Katherine's first husband and his own brother, but then dismissed the idea. It would surely be a poor omen to christen him with the name of the first, ill-fated Prince of Wales to bear the name of Tudor.

The little prince was robust and pink in the face, as he'd already observed, but with raven hair like his mother's. Henry reached out to brush the downy skin of his cheek, and the baby wrapped his miniature hand about his father's finger in a vice-like grip. He opened his eyes and gurgled quietly, and Henry was thrilled to see that the boy shared his brilliantly blue eyes. Katherine beamed fondly at the two of them. "Let us call him Henry. I think he will be as handsome as his father someday. And he will make some woman as happy as you have made me, Henry."

Touched by her words, Henry turned his head towards his wife, reaching out and cupping her face tenderly in his free hand. Then he leaned forward and kissed her gently, considerate of the fact that she had been put through quite a strain that day. "Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you."

They sat there for several minutes more. Henry thought that he had finally fulfilled his childhood wish. He was finally the chivalrous knight, with a virtuous lady to defend. He could finally be that good and godly King, like the legendary Arthur, with the perfect Queen and a Prince waiting to follow after. Finally, he thought, he was living a fairy story. No, better than any fairy story he had ever heard: for this story was true, and in that way, it was more valuable than any of the rest.

* * *

**18 February, 1516  
Whitehall Palace, London**

Henry Tudor paced back and forth anxiously in his private chambers, wringing his hands and every so often glancing out of the window in an attempt to judge the time. Like any good husband, he wanted nothing more than to hear that his wife was delivered safely of a healthy child. One of her ladies had come to inform him that Katherine had gone into labor soon after they'd awoken that morning. Midwives, physicians, and her women were darting to and fro, coming and going from the Queen's bedside. Everyone was concerned for her health and that of the coming baby, but not without very good reason.

Three years earlier Katherine gave birth to her second son by the King. The boy had died shortly thereafter. And in November 1514, another son had been delivered stillborn. Everyone now fervently prayed that Katherine might bring forth a strong and vigorous infant. While Henry would have liked another son, his main concern was that the child did not die.

He did, after all, have little Harry, Prince of Wales. Their boy was so hale and hearty that it was impossible to understand how his brothers had failed to survive. A month and a half after Harry's birth, once he had been sent away from court to keep him safe from any illness that might spread in such an atmosphere, they'd had a scare. Henry shut his eyes tightly, rubbing his temple as he continued to run a hole in the floor.

"_Your Majesties please forgive me, but I have come with news of a grave nature."_

_The royal physician had ridden from Richmond Palace to deliver a report on the health of Prince Harry. Henry swallowed hard. He felt Katherine entwine their fingers together, saw her, out of the corner of his eye, cross herself. In truth, he was tempted to do the same._

"_Yes, doctor, please elaborate," he commanded in a strained voice. If something should happen to their boy…_

_Looking – and sounding – frightened, the physician cleared his throat. "His Highness is ailing, Your Majesty. It is not known whether or not he shall recover. He is so young, and sometimes childhood diseases do, tragically, deliver young souls to the Lord prematurely…" He was clearly trying to make this easier – for the King and Queen as well as for himself. And while Henry knew perfectly well that it was not the physician's fault that his son had taken ill, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the man._

_Instead, he dismissed him curtly, with thanks for the news and strict orders to do everything within his power to preserve the Prince's life._

_As soon as the man was gone, Katherine turned to him fearfully, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Oh Henry," she murmured thickly, "not our baby!"_

_Henry stood up and gathered his wife into his arms, stroking her hair and whispering that God would not take away Harry's innocent life, that they had done nothing to deserve such a punishment, that she should calm herself and not think of such things. But all the while he wondered fearfully what would happen if Prince Harry did die. He felt guilt over not keeping the boy at court longer, as Katherine had wished. She'd been reluctant to part with him, relenting regally but with a heavy heart, kissing her small son many times before delivering him into the arms of his wetnurse and watching them roll away from Whitehall._

God had indeed been gracious to them. Prince Harry had been no worse for wear after all, and Henry ordered further celebrations out of gratitude and relief that his son still lived. Now, "Little Prince Hal," as the people fondly called him, had just recently turned five. He was rambunctious and reminded Henry forcefully of himself at that age.

Now, as a favor to his wife, Harry was at Whitehall with them. He was thrilled to spend time with his father (he rarely had the opportunity to see Katherine during her lying-in) and his "Uncle Charles." Brandon was nearly as fond of Harry as Henry himself, and relished the opportunity to fight him with a wooden sword and pretend to have died at the mighty Prince's hand. Even Margaret, Henry's haughty little sister, was charmed by her small nephew. She too remarked on how much of a troublemaker he was, and how much he would torment his sister, if he was blessed with one, like her brother Prince Harry had tormented her. Of course at that time, Henry had been permitted to live with Margaret and their mother, Queen Elizabeth. He'd been the second son, merely the Duke of York. Harry already had his own household.

The resemblance between Harry and the King was striking. Henry enjoyed hearing everyone comment on how like his father the young Prince was, with his straight dark hair and mischievous blue eyes. He was already tall for his age, and Henry also relished watching him grow. Each day made him more confident that Harry would someday follow him and become the next King of England.

He was considering taking Harry with him to meet his new brother or sister once it arrived. Surely Katherine had delivered their child by now. The sun was sinking in the sky. Soon, one of his menservants or grooms would be in to light the candles and begin a fire in the hearth.

Perhaps he should send someone to ask after the progress of the Queen's labor.

The door swung open just at that moment, and Charles Brandon stepped in. His face was grim and unsmiling. "Henry, you must come quickly," he instructed. While normally the breach in etiquette would have annoyed him, Brandon's tone spoke as clearly as the words themselves, saying there was no time for formalities to be observed. Henry's stomach tied itself in knots. He nodded; following Brandon out, he wondered what could possibly have befallen Katherine this time.

The light was low in Katherine's bedchamber. They had just managed to change her sheets and dress her in a fresh nightgown when the King and his friend arrived. In a corner, the chief midwife was holding the newly-delivered child, having already made sure nothing was physically wrong with it. She attempted to stifle the cries, but Henry immediately turned to see the bundle in the woman's arms. He was somewhat mollified. The child was alive. That was better news than might have been hoped for, given Brandon's solemnity when he had come to fetch the King.

Hearing the unspoken question before Henry could form it, the midwife said, "A girl, Your Majesty. The Queen has given you a healthy baby girl."

Healthy. Henry smiled. But Brandon touched his arm, inclining his head towards Katherine. Feeling his heart sink immediately, he crossed the room to go to her. But he was taken aback at her appearance. The last time he'd seen his wife, the previous evening, she'd been glowing with health and excitement, looking forward to becoming a mother again. Her cheeks were rosy yesterday, her eyes bright.

From what he could see in the dying sunlight and the weak candlelight, everything had changed.

Katherine had a deathly pallor about her. She had dark circles about her eyes which made them look sunken and hollow. And those eyes were closed until her husband knelt at her side, taking one of her hands in both of his. "Thank you, sweetheart," he whispered, trying to steady his voice. "We have a daughter who shall be as beautiful as her mother someday."

She smiled weakly and attempted to squeeze his hand. He tightened his fingers around hers. "Henry…"

The King lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. Katherine was not going to die. She was simply ill. He disregarded her warmer than normal skin, much as he had five years ago when she'd given birth to their son. Henry could not deal well with death. He thought of his own death calmly now that he had an heir who seemed to be in good health, but he could not forget that Arthur had died in his prime, and that he had no _second_ heir to take the throne, should Prince Harry die in his formative years as well.

"Henry," Katherine said again, "name her Mary." She dissolved into a fit of coughing that seemed to rattle her whole body.

He felt more fearful than ever, and clung to her hand more tightly as though that could keep Katherine's soul from slipping away then and there. _Please Lord,_ he prayed fiercely, _do not take her from me. She is my Queen, the mother o f my children…my love…_

As her coughs subsided, she made a valiant effort to speak again. "Please do not…hold this against the child, my darling. It is not her fault."

Horrified at Katherine's words, Henry stood up and settled himself on the bed beside her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. He felt as though his wife was suddenly fragile, as though she would fall apart at the slightest touch, but he could feel her shuddering breaths and the heat of her skin against his. "Do not speak such nonsense, sweetheart. I'll not let anything happen to you."

"Promise me."

In the back of his mind, however, he began to contemplate what he would do if Katherine were to die. How would he treat this daughter of theirs, for whom she'd given her life? He would be expected to make another marriage shortly afterwards, but how could he shove aside his beloved wife's memory? How could he possibly forget her…more than forget her, _replace _her? No one could equal Katherine. No one could be as witty and sweet and vivacious as Princess Catalina had been from the moment she stepped off of the ship from Spain. Henry's blue eyes filled with tears as he recalled the first time they'd met.

"_This is the younger son of His Majesty, my lady Princess," her escort explained, smiling faintly as someone else translated for the dark-haired Spanish beauty. "Prince Henry, the Duke of York."_

_Young and enthusiastic about meeting his brother's long waited-for bride, then ten-year-old Henry bowed low to her. She extended her small hand, and he took it and kissed it graciously. When he released her hand and rose, Katherine was smiling brightly. He grinned at her. He was only ten – Arthur was already fifteen – but Henry was already nearly as tall as their father, and able to look the Spanish princess directly in the eyes._

_When he addressed her, he spoke in Latin. "Welcome to England, Your Highness. I am so glad you'll be my sister in a few days."_

"_Thank you, my lord of York. I am sure it will be a pleasure to call you my brother," she replied sweetly. Henry hoped against hope that she believed that as genuinely as he believed she would make the perfect sister…a much better one than Margaret, who was younger than him and very annoying._

_Suddenly, he had an idea and grinned again. "Please, my lady Princess, I beg you to call me Harry. My brother Prince Arthur and my sister Princess Margaret do, and as you are to be my sister soon you ought to call me that as well," Henry insisted eagerly._

_He had heard such good things about Katherine, and so far he believed all of them whole-heartedly. She was certainly beautiful – she had finely carved features, bright, friendly eyes, and thick waves of dark hair. Arthur was very lucky indeed. Harry had also heard that she was exceptionally intelligent and that Katherine could debate religious and political affairs as competently as any man. He wondered if he would ever find out the truth of that – as soon as she and Arthur were married, Harry didn't doubt that they would go back to Wales. It disappointed the young prince to think of his lively sister-in-law hidden away in dreary, damp Ludlow Castle, miles away from court…and from him._

_Katherine graced him with another smile. Harry felt his heart race. "Then will you consent to call me Catalina…Harry?"_

Henry jerked with a start. A physician stood beside the bed, brow furrowed. "Your Majesty?" he asked softly, and Henry wondered how long he'd been there. In his arms, Katherine's breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. Swallowing hard, he leaned down and kissed her brow. It felt clammy beneath his lips. He then arranged her tenderly against the pillows, and slid off the bed.

"Please alert me if Her Majesty's condition changes," he ordered sharply.

The physician bowed his head, and Henry, staring at sleeping wife for a moment more, exited the bedchamber wondering what fate the Lord had in store for her.

Little did he know that Katherine would never again wake from her deep slumber.

* * *

Three days later in the royal nursery, an infant wailed loudly, its cries echoing down the corridors at Whitehall. The day that should have been newborn Princess Mary's christening ceremony was instead a day of mourning for the court. Queen Katherine had died early that morning, the strain of childbirth coupled with a vicious case of childbed fever having defeated the daughter of Spain's warrior Queen. As the church bells tolled solemnly, as Her Majesty's cold body was being prepared to lie in state, and as Princess Margaret attended the confused, forlorn little Prince of Wales, King Henry locked himself away.

Katherine was dead. Katherine had left him. His darling was dead.

God, too, had forsaken him.

So the King himself drew heavy velvet curtains over the windows, blocking out light and life and happiness, and settling himself in a corner – to rage, to grieve, and – perhaps – to go mad.

And still Katherine's motherless daughter wept.


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **I kind of crammed everything into one day and night, but I wanted to get this chapter out of the way so that I could write more. This is really just a set-up for everything that comes later. =] Everyone sounded like they were anticipating this one. I hope it was worth the wait. (_And_ I actually had the patience to edit and revise for once!) Please tell me what you think, and if everything makes sense. I don't know when "In Dreams" or "Henry's Girls" will be updated.

**Rating: **PG-13

**Disclaimer: **All of the characters are Showtime's, not mine. I'm not making a profit.

* * *

**7 June, 1520**

**France**

Four years had passed since the untimely death of Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England. In that time, everything and nothing had changed at the English court.

Katherine's widower, King Henry, had somehow avoided going completely mad. He struggled to come to terms with his wife's death. No doubt with Charles Brandon's help, the courtiers whispered, His Majesty had emerged from seclusion some weeks later a grey-faced, grim young man.

Life had gradually seeped back into the court, and when the time came a year after the Queen had died, everyone threw off their mourning enthusiastically. Whitehall transformed from a dull, monochromatic shadow of its former self into a vibrant palace. Noblemen ordered their daughters gowns made of the newest, flashiest fabrics available. The ladies' necks and gentlemen's fingers once more glittered with rubies and emeralds and sapphires.

Cardinal Thomas Wolsey made the grave mistake of assuming that, his official mourning, the King would hear his propositions for a new marriage. Henry exploded with rage and turned on his chancellor.

"You disgust me! Does the late Queen's memory mean so little to you? I can and will find another bride without you pestering me to do so, Your Eminence! Get out of my sight! I have nothing more to say to you."

That was the end of the matter.

Even so, Henry did consent to hearing the cardinal's plans on another matter: the betrothal of his son. Wolsey suggested that they accept the King of France's offer to marry his eldest daughter, Princess Charlotte de Valois, to Prince Harry. Francis had proposed several years earlier his that eldest daughter Princess Louise should marry the Prince, but the girl had died young. Wolsey urged that it therefore made sense to finally secure a French alliance. Henry agreed to the match and a meeting between the two monarchs was arranged.

When the king and his retinue arrived in France, they were treated to a dazzling sight. The English and French attempted to outdo one another with a legion of large tents, including a huge cloth-of-gold palace assembled in the center of the great field. Jousting and feasting was scheduled and all in attendance anticipated much general revelry.

For once, Henry thought he would enjoy himself. He made a point to commend not only Wolsey, but also his French ambassador Thomas Boleyn, for this splendor. It distracted him from his grief, which lingered just below the surface. Katherine was in Henry's thoughts every day, but he had come to accept that dwelling on her death accomplished nothing. Life was for living, and he was still very much alive.

So it was with an eager heart that Henry rode down to greet his French "brother," Francis.

* * *

The nine-year-old Prince of Wales had accompanied the English entourage to France, but his sister Princess Mary had been left behind.

Their father had long ago established separate households for both of his children. Harry's had been set up at Richmond, though the boy was aware he would someday move to Ludlow Castle in Wales. It was his duty to oversee the principalities there and prevent the Welshmen from quarrelling and bickering amongst themselves. The only difference between Ludlow and Richmond was its location, or he dearly hoped that would be the case. Few in the Prince's household let on that the Welsh castle was more a moldering fortress than a grand palace.

His little sister had been sent to Hatfield almost immediately following her christening. Harry had been five when his governess told him that the Lord had blessed him with a baby sister, but that He had also seen fit to take his mother the Queen to heaven. Despite seeing Katherine only rarely, Harry adored her. The news of her death left him confused and lost. He quickly discovered that the sister God had sent him was much too small to be played with or interesting in any way, and his doting Mama was no longer there to pet and pamper him. Instead, Aunt Margaret came and read to him sometimes. She told him that his Papa was very sad and could not come to see him. Then almost a month later, he was sent back to Richmond. His memories of that time were rather vague, consisting mainly of black-clad servants and hushed voices. They'd pitied the handsome little boy who suddenly had no mother.

Mary had not been as lucky. Her women seemed fond of her, probably because Queen Katherine had been well-loved throughout the country. But everyone knew their father the King did not want to think of or see his daughter.

By the time he first met his sister, she was no longer a baby. Like her brother, eighteen-month-old Mary had wide blue eyes and straight black hair. She was a very shy little girl. It took a good bit of time before she was convinced that Harry was, in fact, her brother.

They brought the Princess to visit him quite often when he was at Richmond. During her most recent visit two months ago, little Mary calmly inquired as to why she was not allowed to go with Harry on his grand adventure. She wanted to meet Princess Charlotte, who was nearly her age, and play with her. She told him that she very often felt lonely at Hatfield since there were very few girls her age with whom she could play. Then she swore him to confidence.

"It's not good to complain. Lord Jesus never complained. And Lady Salisbury says I must be a good girl," she informed him solemnly.

"Nobody is as good a girl as you," Harry assured her.

Mary's gravity amused him. She was still small, but Harry was sure she had the mind of a much older woman. Perhaps she had the mind of their mother. But now, four years after Mama had gone to heaven, he had trouble remembering exactly what she had been like. Thinking about her too much made him sad, so he, like the King, avoided the subject as much as was possible.

Here in France, everybody was looking forward to a good time. All the gentlemen wanted to prove their worth in the jousts, and all the unmarried ladies hoped to flirt with them. As for Harry, all he had to look forward to was his impending betrothal. Princess Charlotte, the girl to whom he would be betrothed, was only three. He probably wouldn't even meet her.

His sister would be disappointed. Mary had begged him to tell her all about the Princess when he returned.

Like a dutiful older brother, Harry promised her that – while he would try and remember every detail about his future bride – she, Mary, was certainly lovelier and sweeter than any other girl in Christendom. He knew from the way her cheeks had turned pink that she was very pleased indeed.

* * *

No one in France was as delighted about the great meeting between King Henry and King Francis as Mary Boleyn. The auburn-haired beauty had recently been Francis' "English mare." But the taunts and cruel remarks did not seem to affect Mary. She still glowed with youth and health and beauty. However, her ambitious father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, was not quite satisfied with Mary's escapades in the French court. He was planning to summon her back to England as soon as possible, in hopes of making an excellent match for her if at all possible. She was everything that any man could want in a wife…everything, at least, but a virgin.

Mary was not the only pawn in her father's game. Her younger sister Anne also served Queen Claude. Of the two girls, nineteen-year-old Anne was perhaps less beautiful, but certainly more intelligent. The sisters were good friends, but it did not mean Anne approved of everything .

Regardless, she did wish Mary all the best. She played witness to the consequences of her sister's open, flirtatious personality…as well as those of the open door to Mary's bedchamber. The King of France may have lavished her briefly with jewels and other such favors, but Francis presided over a court with innumerable beautiful and promiscuous young women. His interest in Mary waned, and Anne watched the heartlessness with which the elder Boleyn girl was tossed about the French court. In Anne's eyes, Mary had been used and abused. And their father was hardly innocent of those charges.

Even now, Anne caught a glimpse of Boleyn eyeing King Henry with shrewd and ambitious eyes. He could not hope that Mary would soon grace Henry's bed as well!

As the French and English royal parties assembled in the massive cloth-of-gold "palace," Anne took her accustomed place among the Queen of France's ladies. Princess Margaret, Henry's younger sister, filled the late Katherine's place beside the English King, but no one was ignorant of her conspicuous absence.

Finally, it seemed that all the guests had taken a seat, or else were standing, crowded into the tent. Everyone strained to see around the shoulders of others. Whispers spread like wildfire in the multitude, silenced only by the herald who announced:

"His Highness, Henry Tudor, Prince of Wales!"

From the English audience there came great deal of raucous clapping. The French applauded politely. Anne glanced towards King Henry. His complacent smile made her believe the rumor that he was the proudest father in all of Europe.

And for a moment, she was caught up in how handsome Henry was, for now she was able to see him much more closely than before. His features were well defined and his eyes merry. Anne, abandoning her usual astuteness, decided that a man as amiable-looking as King Henry could not be so horrible. Even if Mary went to Henry's bed, surely he would be better to her than Francis.

Prince Henry, too, came across as cheerful. He was tall and well-built for a boy of only nine and was led in by Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, the man Boleyn had told her was behind this meeting as well as the betrothal. The English had a fine future King in this child.

The herald called again: "Her Highness, Princess Charlotte de Valois!"

This time, the applause and cheers were subdued. A tiny girl entered timidly, clutching tightly to her governess' hand. Anne recognized her at once, with a small smile, as Queen Claude's second daughter, Charlotte, a delicate child with a milky complexion and red-brown hair. Beside her intended groom, Charlotte was dwarfed.

Anne glanced away from the Prince and Princess and caught her sister's eye. They exchanged smiles. For her part, Anne was contemplating how lucky little Charlotte would be if this marriage came to fruition. Prince Henry was sure to be as handsome as his father someday. Everyone said his mother, too, had been an attractive woman. Mary, however, made it abundantly clear that she had eyes only for their King.

_Oh sister, must you always choose the way of heartbreak?_

She knew Mary. And so she knew the answer: always.

* * *

The pomp and ceremony came as something of a shock to the young Prince. Whitehall was grand, but by comparison, these celebrations put the English court to shame. From what little he could observe, the French royal family and their courtiers appeared very haughty indeed. Only Queen Claude looked as if she might be friendly. Harry felt slightly intimidated – but then he straightened his shoulders and reminded himself that he was the future King of England. He was the grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. And when he saw how proud his father looked as he stepped forward, Harry grinned to chase away his nerves.

_I can do this._

But all the same, once Princess Charlotte was brought in as well, he couldn't prevent the sinking feeling in his stomach. How could he possibly see her as his wife? Even Mary, who was only eight months her senior, stood taller and looked healthier!

Harry dared to take a doleful glance in his father's direction. King Henry, however, was not paying the least bit of attention to how miniscule Charlotte was. He leaned over instead to hear something that Francis had to say, and then laughed softly. His head turned away from the soon-to-be betrothed couple, but Harry had little opportunity to follow his gaze. Wolsey tapped him on the shoulder smartly to remind him that his attention was required elsewhere.

"Your Highness, your future bride," he announced warmly.

So Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. He stepped forward. Charlotte, too, took a meager little step after her governess grudgingly released her grip on the princess' shoulders. Harry bowed low to her. "Your Highness," he muttered.

Princess Charlotte drooped into a wobbly curtsy. Then she extended her hand as she had been told. Harry took and kissed it. Against his warmer, more callous skin, hers felt cool and clammy. Then Charlotte closed her fingers around his. She smiled at him. Suddenly she seemed much less gloomy and much prettier. Her expression no longer struck him as sad and forlorn. He promised himself that he would describe her favorably to Mary when they returned to England.

"I think you are very handsome, Your Highness," she announced carefully. Her big grey-blue eyes stared up at him trustingly.

Harry smiled back. "And I think you are the prettiest girl I have ever seen, Princess."

The observers appropriately expressed its pleasure at the sweetness of the couple and then Wolsey separated them. Harry saw his sister in the disappointment written all over Charlotte's face. She waved to her parents (Queen Claude waved back) as her governess took her firmly by the hand and escorted her out. King Henry, however, stood up. He smiled indulgently at his son and motioned that he should come join them at the high table.

Surprised, Harry moved around to the back of the table. The crowd parted and bowed respectfully as he passed. Another chair was drawn up beside Princess Margaret. She, too, was obliged to stand up and curtsy to her young nephew as he took a seat. The French side of the tent expressed their astonishment for such an unexpected breach of etiquette. As for Henry, he seemed pleased to now have the upper hand.

Harry drank in the sights and sounds, having rarely been allowed to attend such festivities at Whitehall. He started to think that his time in France would have a point after all.

* * *

Princess Margaret was bored.

She was always bored.

Her brother had been so tied up in his own business that he had never given her a second thought. Margaret was at an age that she should be married and a mother, and yet her childbearing years, the years when she would be a beautiful and desirable wife, were passing quickly.

The relief she felt when their father died knew no bounds. The resentful Henry the Seventh would have made her an unbearable match, of that Margaret was sure. After the deaths of his son and wife, Henry had been blind to the well-being of his only daughter. He kept Henry under tight wraps, fearful that some evil fate may befall his younger son as it had Arthur. But he forgot that he had a lovely young princess at his disposal to use as a political pawn. She had been allowed, miraculously, to remain unwed.

But soon after her brother Harry became the next King, despair crept closer to Margaret's heart. She watched the joy Henry and Katherine, now her sister-in-law twice-over, shared, and envied them. Would _she_ ever experience that kind of intangible, powerful love? Before Henry had married Arthur's widow, Margaret doubted any royal match could be a happy one. Now, she wondered. If some handsome Frenchman, second or third in line to the throne, or perhaps even a Spaniard, wanted to marry her, if she arrived and fell madly in love with him…

Henry seemed too wrapped up in his duties as king and his new family to worry about his poor sister. There was no mention of a match being made for her. Once or twice, she thought of mentioning it to Henry, or at least to the Queen. After the birth of their son, Henry would surely heed her advice. Before she had the opportunity to work up her nerve, Henry sailed off to war in France.

Then Katherine's death changed everything. Everyone feared the King was losing his mind. For a while, Margaret forgot that she was slowly becoming an old maid. She attempted to mother her poor little nephew until he was sent brusquely away to Richmond. When things at Whitehall settled down, few wanted to incur his wrath by bringing up the topic of marriage. Even four years later, Margaret was well aware that Henry's heart had not mended well. So she did her best to swallow her pride and keep her longing to herself. Surely someone would ask for her hand one day. The King's daughter, Princess Mary, was only a child after all.

Though perhaps Princess Mary would be left forgotten, like Margaret had been after her mother, Queen Elizabeth's death.

Margaret glanced at the chair now separating her and her brother. For a moment, she felt annoyed by the breach in protocol, annoyed that she should be pushed aside for a mere nine-year-old boy. But Prince Harry beamed at her, and Margaret felt her anger dissolve. She touched his hand and smiled back. If she ever had a son, Margaret hoped he would be as loving – and lovable – as Harry.

Over her nephew's shoulder, Margaret caught the eye of Charles Brandon. He stood behind the King, laughing softly at the sight of Henry inviting his son to sit at the royal table so unexpectedly, something the French King would probably never have done. Upon seeing her, Brandon respectfully inclined his head. Margaret lifted her chin haughtily, but she was really studying his mirthful face. Why had she never noticed how handsome Brandon was before? Of course, when she was a child, Margaret considered him a nasty boy, always pulling pranks on her, a Princess, with her brother Harry's help…and he was not even a nobleman's son! When she did not look away, Brandon grinned at her boldly.

"Hmph!" she exclaimed, turning her head sharply away.

Still, Margaret could not deny that in spite of her indignation, the way Brandon's eyes had raked over her left her a little light-headed. She knew she was a beautiful woman, knew that men at court often looked at her yearningly, but…something was different about this.

No relationship could ever work between her and her brother's best friend. Besides, Brandon was as much a womanizer as Henry. Margaret put the idea out of her mind, despite finding she could not banish the feeling so easily. Twisting her face back into a blank mask, Margaret managed to stifle a sigh. Someday, she would fall in love. And the man would prove himself far worthier of her heart than Charles Brandon.

* * *

Later that evening, the English and French entourages shared a grand feast. Afterwards, many of the tables were cleared away to make room for dancing. The great royal tent was opened to the crisp night air. Henry had sent his son away when they had finished their meal, ruffled Harry's dark hair and banished any thoughts of his mother that accompanied the sight of him. Almost at once, Francis engaged him in conversation. Henry quickly discovered that the French King's favorite subject was himself, but that he also enjoyed describing his many female conquests.

It was an undeniable fact that Henry had taken mistresses, but he could not remember a time when he had flaunted them before his wife. The most recent of these had been Lady Bessie Blount. Shortly before they left for France, Wolsey mentioned off-handedly that the pretty blonde woman was with child. Henry sent her (and her husband) a great deal of money. Bessie had pleased him. She had taken his mind off missing Katherine and off the pressures of being King. He wished to reward her well, and to provide her plenty of funds with which to raise the child she would soon bear. But when he'd sometimes taken a woman to bed while Katherine was alive, he had tried to do so discreetly.

Poor Queen Claude, Henry thought. She was no great beauty, but from what he had heard, she was a good woman and a popular Queen. And there she sat, regal and composed, listening to her husband brag about the many girls he had deflowered since he'd taken the throne!

If he could have Katherine back, Henry would never look at another woman again.

"And that, _mon frère_, is one of your English roses…though recently we have been calling her by another name," Francis chuckled. Henry followed his gaze to the corner of the tent. Immediately, his interest was roused. A rose indeed. The girl in question was dressed in a sweetly seductive gown of red velvet. Her black hair tumbled in loose curls down her back and over her shoulders. Henry could not see her face properly but he was already captivated. She was deep in conversation with another young woman, auburn-haired and also quite lovely. The other girl, however, seemed to lack her companion's enchanting appeal.

He glanced away towards Francis, who was observing him with a grin. "She is beautiful," Henry stammered. Francis nodded in satisfaction, as though he and not God had gifted her with such beauty.

"_Oui," _he confirmed, "_elle est très belle._"

Henry turned his eyes back to the mysterious girl. "What is her name?" he croaked. He suddenly felt as though he had crawled through the desert for days. His lips were dry, his throat parched. "Who is she?" This was foolish, but he longed to know. He wanted to shake Francis, demand to be told –

The French King smiled waywardly. "She is the daughter of your ambassador, Sir Boleyn…Mademoiselle Marie."

Why had no one ever mentioned that Boleyn had such a jewel hidden away in France? It hardly mattered that she'd been Francis' mistress…and if he knew anything about Francis, half the men in his court's mistress as well. She was stunning – an unusual beauty. Henry pursed his lips, leaning heavily on his elbow. Then he turned away from Francis and scanned the crowd for Brandon. It took him a moment to realize that his friend was dancing rather than standing behind him.

"Charles!" Henry called, interrupting him with such earnestness that Brandon stopped immediately. First he glanced up at the King, looking concerned. He then kissed the hand of the pretty French girl with whom he'd been dancing, apologized, and circled the royal table. Bowing as was expected, he asked, "Your Majesty?"

They'd been friends long enough for Henry to trust him with anything. Of that, the King was sure. He pointed out the two ladies, their heads bent in conversation. The fairer one suddenly laughed. It didn't occur to Henry that they could be related. He didn't even think to ask Francis who the second girl was. The only name in his mind now was that of Mary Boleyn. For a moment, he simply stared, drinking in the intoxicating sight.

Brandon cleared his throat in an attempt to bring him back to earth. He had not seen Henry this way since long before Katherine's death.

"I want you to find Boleyn. Tell him I would like to meet his daughter Mary this evening, if it can be arranged," he muttered under his breath. Brandon had probably only met the French ambassador once or twice before, but Henry expected him to seek him out nevertheless. And Brandon knew that no excuse was good enough for the King when that excuse stood between him and something he wanted. And the hungry, almost pained look in his eyes said pointedly that he wanted this girl. Wile Brandon couldn't imagine why Boleyn would want to sacrifice his daughter's virginity for a man of such fickle tastes – even if he was the King of England – he could not speak for any other man.

So Brandon bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Henry paid little attention to King Francis or Brandon. Instead, he continued to watch Mary, hoping that her youth and loveliness could remind him of all he'd been missing since he had become a widower. He hoped that she could stir his blood to the point that he could remind his country, Europe, and himself that Henry the Eighth was still a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

It could not be said of Mary Boleyn that she did not have a kind and loving heart. Unfortunately, she was fond of having fun and fonder of men. She flirted easily, smiled easily…and gave into those men easily. Her affair with the King of France had been, she supposed, a mistake. Francis had been good to her for a time. But he had also hurt her. Mary had never asked to be passed around the French court like a flask of fine wine. And she could do nothing about it. She could not go to the Queen, even if she had wanted to. She certainly could not complain to her father. Thomas Boleyn reaped the rewards, however short-lived, allotted to him by his daughter's affair. At least he was not angry with her. Many fathers would be, especially since Francis was not the King whom they served.

All of that was forgotten tonight, however. Mary was enjoying herself. She had the attention of a handsome French courtier and was flirting mercilessly with him. It was the kind of night that made Mary regret that she and her sister would soon return to England. King Henry's court could have nothing on Francis', even if Papa desired that she should become Henry's mistress.

She and Anne had dispersed from the royal cloth-of-gold tent. Her sister chose, as always, to mingle with Queen Claude's women. Mary almost pitied Anne. She was forever delegated to the ranks of the women while she watched her sister enjoy the company of men. But she never once objected; perhaps she did not mind so much, or perhaps she thought that once their father found a husband for Mary, she could take the limelight.

Mary heard footsteps behind her and turned away from her friend. Then she grinned. "Papa!"

He looked satisfied. There was more warmth than normal in his blue eyes. She knew something at once that good had happened, and thought she could hazard a guess as to what he had to tell her. "King Henry noticed you today," he murmured in her ear. Mary, who had found the King quite pleasing, giggled. He was much handsomer than Francis! "He's asked to see you."

Her father took part in her joy and then made to go. Mary took hold of his arm and managed to suppress her giddy laughter. "Wait!" she cried. "I must go and tell Anne."

Excitedly, Mary wove her way through the crowd. She could hardly see anything, much less anyone. The drink and heat had inebriated nearly everyone there. The opulence was a little frightening, really, even compared to court. With some difficulty, she peered over people's shoulders and finally spotted her sister.

"Anne!"

The younger Boleyn girl's face betrayed little emotion, though she smiled in greeting. Mary whispered the news in her ear, and then she was gone again, paying no attention whatever to the fact that the smile quickly faded from Anne's lips, leaving her looking thoughtful and – perhaps – a little disappointed.

* * *

Thomas Boleyn again hunted his eldest daughter down shortly afterwards and pulled her aside. "You must ready yourself to meet His Majesty, sweetheart," he purred. "Though he has already come to appreciate your beauty."

Mary simpered, happy to accept his praise. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I shall try my hardest, Papa," she promised, then scurried away to do what he asked. By the sound of Charles Brandon's voice when the man had told him, the King indeed already seemed infatuated with Mary's beauty. The rest ought to be simple for her. The girl was lovely and charming, and reminded him quite a bit of his late wife Elizabeth. Despite the wanton ways she had learned in France, Mary could bring her family into Henry's favor; he would reward Boleyn and his son George richly, and find a willing man to wed Mary once he had cast her off. The future looked bright for his family.

As for his other daughter, Anne, he did not know quite what to do with her. She was the cleverer, less easily manipulated girl, and it hardly made her an ideal mistress for King Henry or any other man. Without the King's intervention, however, Boleyn was not entirely sure he could find as advantageous a match as he would like for Anne.

That, and he knew she would not be happy just anywhere.

It was true that Anne's happiness – and Mary's – came second; the family's interests came first, naturally. But of his children Boleyn favored Anne most of all. He prided himself that she took after him. Boleyn had indulged her whims when she had been a small child, before he'd sent she and her sister away to serve Margaret of Austria and Queen Claude. Truth be told, he had missed his little girl for a while. Now, however, she posed a problem he found it difficult to solve.

"Papa?"

He glanced to his left. As though his thoughts had summoned her, Anne now stood by his side. Her brow was furrowed. Boleyn smiled tersely at her. "Yes, sweetheart?"

Anne laid her hand on his arm. They began to walk, more out of custom than the need to do so, and Boleyn wondered if he would not soon hear a sermon from her. It was fortunate that, even if Anne had been foolish enough to offer her sister advice, Mary most assuredly would not listen to or to heed it. Thankfully, Anne's intelligence had not yet interfered with his plans. He suspected his youngest child had a good deal more ambition than Mary and that she could understand his motives, even if she did not always agree with them.

"I know you seek only to gain His Majesty's favor, Papa, but I am afraid for Mary's sake. After all, King Henry is no longer married, and she is so open with her feelings – do you not think it's possible that she might…well, fall in love with him – or at least convince herself that she loves him?" Anne smiled a little uneasily, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes.

Boleyn grimaced. While such a possibility had never occurred to him, his bigger fear was that Anne would try to put such notions in Mary's head, even if she had yet to do so. Still, sisterly affection may soon overcome Anne's obedience to him. He decided to dismiss the suggestion without delay. "Even your sister is not so naïve," he replied coldly. "She has slept with half the men in the French court! To Mary, the King of England is just another man."

Seeing his daughter's expression, Boleyn softened. He smiled at her comfortingly. "Come now, sweetheart. Do not worry about Mary. Worry about _us_! Our family will benefit from this, and so will Mary. I'm sure King Henry will find her a fine husband in exchange for sharing his bed." He stopped and touched Anne's cheek. She looked only slightly appeased. "And perhaps he will find you one as well!" Boleyn kissed her temple, and then he was off again, leaving her standing in the middle of the warm French night, speculating about not only Mary's future but also about her own.

* * *

An hour dragged by in the King of England's quarters. Henry shed his formal clothing allowed his menservants to shave the beard he had grown as a symbol of trust between himself and Francis, and then ordered them all away. Brandon had told him to expect Lady Mary Boleyn, and now he waited impatiently, pacing back and forth as he had whenever Katherine had been in labor.

The door opened. Henry looked up at once. Brandon stood aside, and a cloaked young woman entered after him. His heart skipped a beat. The two friends exchanged a meaningful glance; Brandon lowered his head in acknowledgement and then stepped out, no doubt to wait by the door. To a monarch, real privacy was rare and therefore precious.

He summoned her forward with a short gesture of his hand, and felt suddenly self-conscious of his half-dressed state, standing there in only his trousers. She stopped in front of him, lowering herself into a deep curtsy. Without raising her up and practically holding his breath with anticipation, Henry pushed back her scarlet silk hood.

Anger and resentment welled up within him. _This_ was not the dark-haired beauty he had expected! Did Boleyn think such trickery amused him? Or perhaps it was Brandon's doing. He had never seen this girl before – but when he observed her for a few moments more, he realized that she must be the second girl. The companion. His own stupidity then occurred to him. _She_ was the one Francis had lauded as his "English mare." Francis, Brandon, and especially Boleyn had assumed _she_ was the one he desired. His anger turned inward. He was furious with himself for having been so ignorant, for having made such a simple mistake.

"Lady Mary?" he asked, knowing she would confirm the error.

Mary smiled nervously. "Yes, Your Majesty," she replied. She had clearly noticed his agitation and that he was not at all pleased to see her.

Henry knew he could have Mary Boleyn regardless. She was there, ready, willing. Or he could ask her to identify her friend and have her sent for. But perhaps she was a French girl who was no more than a passing acquaintance of Mary's …and besides, that question would only make him feel even more foolish. Part of him was tempted to take advantage of her presence. But Henry had a feeling that he would only be disappointed. He would not come away from the encounter satisfied.

Henry sighed. "Leave me," he muttered, in a tone with which no one could argue.

Mary curtsied again, whispering, "Your Majesty."

If he had hurt her, it was not _his_ fault. Boleyn's daughter was pretty and she seemed sweet, but she was not the one consuming his thoughts. Henry was ill-prepared to deal with a new obsession, especially which centered on a now nameless girl who he may never see again. He was so used to getting what he wanted that he had forgotten that love – if this could be called love – struck without warning and without discretion. His heart did not know or care that he was the King of England.

To his dismay, neither did the girl who was not Mary Boleyn, and there was a good chance she never would.

_Hopefully I'll have another update next weekend. I'll try! I hope you guys liked this chapter. I know it was all over the place. Remember to review!  
_


	3. Chapter Two

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far!_

**A/N:** Sorry to keep everyone waiting longer than planned, but I had way too much on my plate to finish this in a wee. It's sort of short, but…I wanted it to end where it ended. It may be some time before the next update, so I hope you all enjoy and savor this one. Reviews are always lovely. =] And don't forget to vote in my poll!

* * *

**18 February, 1521**

**Hatfield**

New-fallen snow glistened on the grounds of Hatfield House, but the sun had finally shown its face, peeking out from behind the bleak cloud-cover. Princess Mary Tudor delighted in waking and discovering her new, white world. The weak morning sunlight shimmered enchantingly against the smooth surface of the snow beneath Mary's window. She lamented that she had lessons and could not go out and play, like peasant children in the surrounding villages must be doing.

It took Mary a moment to remember that she in fact did _not_ have lessons that morning. Today was her birthday. She was five years old.

Papa's gift had arrived the day before, but Lady Salisbury refused to let her young charge touch it until today. She did not really mind so much. As eager as she was to unwrap the pretty silver cloth and see what her father had sent her this year, Papa coming to see her would be a much nicer present. Her governess told her over and over that Papa was King Henry to the rest of Britain, and that though he loved her very much, he was always busy and could not come see her as often as either of them would have liked.

To a young child like Mary, the excuse was not a very good one. But she knew the true reason. She'd heard some of the household servants talking about it when she was much smaller. Her mama, the Queen, died before Mary had even been christened. Papa had been extremely sad, and he sent his baby daughter away to Hatfield because she reminded him of her dead mama.

Mary wished she did not make Papa sad, but when she _did_ see him, she could tell. He never talked to her much, and when he did, his eyes became wet and red, and he sent her away again. Lady Salisbury would not talk to her about it, saying she was too young to understand. As for herself, the little Princess could not feel so sad about the Queen who died before she was old enough to remember her. Sometimes she asked Harry if _he_ remembered her. Harry never kept anything from her, and she was convinced that he was the very best brother in the whole world. But she was also a little jealous of him. Everybody knew that Papa went to see Harry at Richmond much more often than he saw her. She wondered if that meant Papa loved Harry better.

She put her head back on the pillow, not wanting her maids to wake up yet. When Harry came to visit her before he went to France to be betrothed, she had asked why she hadn't been invited, too. It was rude of Papa not to bring her. After all, Princess Charlotte, King Francis' daughter, would be there. But she'd also asked about the Queen. Harry remembered her. Maybe he was sad when he spent time with his little sister, too, but he never showed it like Papa.

_The two royal children walked slowly around the gardens at Hatfield. Harry held tight to Mary's hand, and a whole host of servants, including Lady Salisbury, trailed them in case anything should happen._

"_What was our mama like, Harry?" she asked suddenly._

_Harry squeezed harder on her fingers. For a moment, Mary feared she would be sent away by her brother, too. But he only smiled at her. The hollow look in his eyes went away quickly, and the smile that replaced it seemed genuine to her.. "Mama was a very beautiful lady," he replied brightly. "She was from Spain…do you know where that is, Mary?"_

_She nodded, visualizing the simplistic map of Europe her governess had once drawn for her. Spain was underneath France. Mary wondered if it was warm there, and if her mama had missed Spain when she left. It looked like an awfully long way from Spain to England._

"_Well, Mama was a Spanish Princess who came to England to marry Papa's brother," Harry went on. "But Papa's brother died. She had to wait years and years, longer than you've been alive, but then when our grandfather died and Papa became the King, she fell in love with him."_

_Mary's mouth fell open. She stared up dreamily at her brother without really seeing him. It sounded so much like a fairy tale: a beautiful Princess and a handsome Prince who lived happily ever after. For a moment she forgot the flaw in the story: the Princess _hadn't_ lived happily ever after. Her mama died – and died so that her baby girl could live. Mary couldn't ever remember feeling guiltier for Katherine's death than she did at that moment. No wonder Papa didn't love her. No wonder he kept her so far away. Her lip trembled, and she stopped walking._

_Her brother paused, too, and then knelt down beside her. "Mary?" he said softly. _

_She put her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear, big salty tears leaking out of her eyes. "It's my fault Mama died, Harry."_

_He rubbed her back and stroked her hair, more like a father to her at that moment than a nine-year-old boy. "Shhh, Mary, it's not your fault at all. Don't you dare blame yourself! You don't want Mama to be sad in Heaven, do you? She wouldn't want you to take the blame."_

_Mary swallowed hard. She wanted her mama to be proud of her…and she'd try her best to make Papa love her, too. _

By the time she was dressed and had eaten a little breakfast, Mary had overcome her sadness. She was determined not to let the moroseness of her little household get to her. In just three days, they would observe the fifth anniversary of Queen Katherine's death. She didn't remember that her mama's death was so close to her birthday.

"Come, Your Highness, you may open His Majesty's gift now," Lady Salisbury offered warmly. She held out her hand and Mary took it, tempted to ask if Papa had sent any letter with her present. They walked out into Hatfield's small receiving chamber, where one of her maids-in-waiting held the King's package. Mary accepted it and gingerly untied the loose string. The fabric fell away, revealing a tiny pearl bracelet, and a note which fluttered to the floor. The little girl bent down and picked it up, unable to keep from being disappointed. She handed it to Lady Salisbury without even reading it.

Her governess scanned the small piece of parchment and actually smiled. "Fetch the Princess' cloak please," she instructed the girl, who curtsied and shuffled into the next chamber, where she promptly found Mary's ermine-trimmed mantle.

Lady Salisbury took it and draped it around her charge's shoulders, fastening the broach just below Mary's chin and lifting the hood so that it covered her ears. She then slipped the pearls around her wrist and took her hand again. Perhaps she would be allowed to play outside in the snow after all, Mary thought. Usually everyone simply fretted and frowned, telling her that she may catch cold and that her father would be most displeased if that should happen.

Mary squinted around at the courtyard, now transformed into a winter garden. It was breathtaking. The dissatisfaction she felt towards the present sent by her papa quickly dissolved. "We should make a snow-man, that is what peasant children do," she mused, and let go of Lady Salisbury's hand and drifting off towards a snow-covered rosebush. "It looks like sugar!"

Just as she went to put a little in her mouth to see if the taste, too, was the same, something cold and wet hit her in the shoulder. She wheeled around, wondering who dared to throw snow at the daughter of the King of England.

"Harry!" Mary exclaimed delightedly.

The Prince of Wales stood behind her, roaring with laughter. He had turned ten at the very beginning of the year, and Mary thought he looked even more handsome than she remembered. It did not surprise her. Papa was a handsome man, too. What a wonderful surprise! She didn't care if the King chose to ignore her and to forget that she had a birthday. Her brother was there, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor and fraternal love. It had been months since he had come to Hatfield, and the Princess' household had not been invited to Whitehall for Christmas. Mary eagerly scampered to his side.

Harry caught her and hugged her close. Their noses were both red from the cold. Had it not been for their fine clothes, it would have been difficult to tell that the Tudor siblings were a Prince and Princess.

"Happy birthday, little sister," he teased, grinning innocently at her.

She giggled. "You didn't tell me you were coming!"

"Don't tell me you would have had me ruin my surprise, I shall not believe it!"

Both Mary and her brother looked up. None other than the King of England, their father, strode towards them. His face was for once mirthful as he looked on the happy sight of his and Katherine's children. Mary was so stunned she couldn't speak at all. She was torn. Should she curtsy or run to him, like she had to her brother? She wanted to do _something _besides shyly hide behind Harry. Even if he came to see her very rarely, he was still her papa.

"Go on," Harry whispered, pushing her gently forward so that she stumbled a little bit. She supposed he knew best, and after another moment's hesitation, Mary lifted her skirts and dashed across the snowy ground. Papa leaned over and hoisted her into his arms and spun her around dizzily for a moment before Mary had the opportunity to wrap her little arms securely around his neck. Papa smiled at her.

She could hardly believe it. He was actually smiling and there were no tears in his eyes at all! "Thank you for my present, Papa," she said. Now that Papa and Harry were _both _here – an unheard of event and amazing good luck – Mary bubbled with good cheer.

Papa kissed her cheek. "Anything for you, my sweetheart," he replied softly. The King knew what his daughter could not: that he had not kept the promise he'd made to Katherine on her deathbed. He hadn't been a good, loving, attentive father to Mary. He would have to make up for lost time now. "Anything for the pearl of my world. Are you having a good birthday, hmm? What's this about snow-men? Do you think you and Harry and I could build one together?"

Mary's grey eyes grew enormous. Papa making snow-men with her! It was too good to be happening to her. But…she tugged on Papa's collar. "Can you keep a secret, Papa?" she whispered. He nodded and smiled encouragingly. "I've never made a snow-man before."

Very briefly, she thought he would laugh. He didn't, though, only kissed her cheek again. "Between you and me, I haven't either," he confessed. "We can learn together."

And as much as Mary wanted to hold on to him for as long as she could, Papa set her down after another few minutes. She proceeded to close her hand around three of his fingers, and to march him inside. Happy though she was to see her brother, Mary refused to waste one second in her father's company. Lady Salisbury trailed closely behind them. Having the King and the Prince of Wales in Mary's household that day would make a good deal of extra work for all of them, but the Princess herself was unaware of it. She absolutely glowed with pleasure. None of the maids-in-waiting looked sour that afternoon.

The King played with both his children, and – to everyone's amazement – even tucked Mary in that evening, dismissing Lady Salisbury and wishing his little girl sweet dreams. He then bid farewell to Harry, who was to go back to Richmond as soon as the roads had cleared and rode away to Whitehall under cover of darkness.

Lady Salisbury stood at the window and watched him disappear, wondering if there was still hope that her young mistress may yet have a true father.

* * *

**25 February**

**Hever Castle**

Two young women sat together in a modest first-floor bedchamber. The Boleyn sisters were poring over a letter from the King's chancellor. Cardinal Wolsey's letter held a most generous offer: His Majesty had extended an invitation to Mary to join his sister Margaret's household. For the purpose of finding a husband, Mary could hope for nothing better than to go to court. But that was not all. Anne, too, had been presented a place in Princess Mary's household at Hatfield. It was not court, but Anne hoped her father would consent to her going. The King's daughter was said to be very sweet, and she would not mind serving in a simpler household. Her former lady, Queen Claude, attempted to keep one, but her husband's court made true humility and virtue among her women impossible.

**  
**There was still a chance that Thomas Boleyn would keep Anne from accepting the position. When Mary failed to capture the King's heart as he'd planned, none of Boleyn's children had been spared. Even George – and especially George's pocketbook – was kept under tighter wraps.

Anne had simply been puzzled. Her sister could not account for Henry's disinterest. Mary had said something about the King seeming confused and disappointed.

"_It was if he was waiting for _another _Mary Boleyn," she confided the next evening, glancing despairingly at Henry._

_Anne laughed. "Another Mary Boleyn? There is no one like you in all of France, sister!" _

_Mary looked unconvinced. Their father was angry with her, and she could not help but wonder how she would ever make a proper marriage without King Henry's assistance. No man wanted a girl the French had labeled as their "mare" from England. _

_So Mary lusted after the King of England. There were plenty more men who would invite Mary to their beds. None could offer the same advantages, but Anne was relieved on her sister's behalf. She would neither have her heart broken, nor would she be passed around anyone's court like a child's plaything. She would find a fine husband somewhere – and Anne would rest easier knowing that she was out of harm's way. It never occurred to her to worry about herself. _

"Do you suppose Papa will let you go?" Mary asked, looking over the letter a second time. If there had been a Queen to serve, Boleyn would have insisted that _both_ his daughters enter her household. But there was only Princess Margaret, fast on her way to becoming an old maid, and Henry's little daughter. No one was even sure if the King planned to marry again. It was said that the pain of Katherine's death still plagued him. "It's not exactly the ideal place to attract a wealthy man to marry you."

Anne shrugged. Their father was more concerned about Mary's future for the time being. He had yet to suggest that his youngest child should put herself in the King's – or anyone else's – way. She knew that she was considered plain when compared to her sister, and that men valued a woman's body above her mind. Serving Princess Mary may not help her, but it certainly would not harm her. She suspected that Boleyn already felt the consequences of having a promiscuous daughter, and that he was not in any hurry to burden himself with another. What objection could he have? And if his ambitions changed, it was possible that the King would encounter Anne at Hatfield.

"It's possible," she replied. "But I think he's more concerned with you, Mary. As long as I don't get underfoot and interfere with his plans for you, he cannot complain."

Mary put her arm around her sister's shoulders. "If I find a wealthy enough man to marry me, Papa will never complain about anything again." She smiled, leaned over, and pressed her lips against Anne's forehead affectionately. Then she got to her feet. "Maybe you will be the lucky one, Anne. Maybe you'll fall in love." Mary folded up the King's letter and went to deliver it to their father.

* * *

**Whitehall**

His friend was making every effort to seem cheerful and not to dwell on the past. It was encouraging progress, considering that the King had languished in misery these past five years. Charles Brandon encouraged him to visit his daughter on her birthday. By all accounts, the trip had been a success not only for the young Princess, but for Henry as well. He hoped that the King was coming to realize that Katherine was not the only woman in the world. There were other matches he could make for himself, providing not only a stepmother for his two children, but also a Queen for England and more children for the royal nursery. Prince Harry was a strong, hearty boy so far, but anything could happen to a ten-year-old. Even England's "New Year's boy" was not immune. But he didn't want to bring the matter up and find himself on the receiving end of Henry's temper.

Though he had yet to think of marrying a second time himself, the King had finally found a husband for his sister. Brandon sat with him, reading over the letter from the King of Portugal. Though he was quite old – too old, Brandon thought contemptuously, for a woman like Margaret – a marriage between them would make Henry's sister a Queen and potentially the mother of future Kings, though the King of Portugal already had an adult son.

Henry suddenly glanced up from the letter and said, "I want you to escort my sister to Portugal."

Brandon started and grinned grinned. Henry knew him; he'd known him for years. What was he thinking? He had a weakness for beautiful women to rival even the King's. And no one could say that Princess Margaret was not a beautiful woman. "Your Majesty, I cannot," he protested. "What would the Portuguese say about the son of a flag-bearer escorting a Princess of England to her wedding?" Besides, wasn't Henry going to consider the match for longer than five minutes? He was gambling with his sister's future and her happiness.

Henry narrowed his eyes. Brandon knew instantly that he had said the wrong thing, and while it had been mostly in jest, he wished he had seen that his friend meant it to be an honor and not a joke. Since Katherine's death, his disposition had significantly worsened. "I don't give a damn about the Portuguese's opinions, Charles," he growled. "Besides, I do not intend for you to go as the son of a flag-bearer."

But he _was_ the simple son of a flag-bearer, even if he Henry's best friend. Brandon was puzzled for a moment before he realized what the King meant: he was prepared to raise him to a rank appropriate for the responsibility he had given Brandon.

"Your Majesty?" Brandon stammered.

The King chuckled softly at his friend's surprise. "I intend for you to sail for Portugal as the Duke of Suffolk, Charles!" he announced. "Or shall I say, Your Grace!"

Before he could really process the information, before he even knew what was going on, Brandon was laughing too. He stood up and pulled Henry into a one-armed, rib-cracking embrace. Him, Charles Brandon, a peer! One of the most important men in the realm! He drew away from Henry after a few moments, breathlessly happy. "Thank you Your Majesty!" he paused. "You are a better friend than I, Henry."

Coughing slightly and slapping Brandon on the back, Henry stepped away from him. "I know it, Charles. I trust you will take the greatest care in seeing my sister to Portugal. Now excuse me – I must tell her."

Brandon bowed to the King as he went out, still very much in shock. Some part of him _did_ register relief – relief that, while his friend might have been entrusting Margaret's care to the wrong man, he did would not place the burden of delivering the news to her. He couldn't imagine that Henry's sister would be at all pleased that she was being sent to some old man's bed, even if she did become Queen. _What a waste,_ he thought in disgust. Margaret should be married to a handsome, virile young man who could appreciate her. A man who could really love her. It didn't occur to Brandon that he was essentially describing himself.

* * *

Margaret stared at her brother in horror. She could hardly believe her ears. Someone had finally thought to ask for her hand in marriage, and Henry had finally decided to stop pretending she was not wasting away at Whitehall. But why _this_ match?

"The King of Portugal!" she repeated, dumbfounded. "He is an old man!"

Henry simply met her gaze with his emotionless blue-grey eyes. The apathy in their icy depths made her shudder. When he rode out to see Mary at Hatfield, Margaret had thought he might finally transform back into the rambunctious and energetic young man he had been in the early years of his reign. She was sorely disappointed. He returned the same shell of a man he'd been before going to see his daughter – actually traveling to her household for the first time ever. Mary had clearly made no impact on Henry whatsoever.

For one absurd moment, she hated her dead sister-in-law. If Katherine had lived, Henry would not be like this. He would have cared – eventually – about the happiness of his sister. Now, he was willing to marry her off to the first suitable suitor. Even if that suitor was a drooling old buffoon!

"Please." Margaret banished her pride with a grimace. She resolved to appeal to Henry's better nature – to whatever love he felt for her now, or ever had. "Please, Henry. Anyone else…but not the King of Portugal!"

Something in Henry visibly snapped. His mouth became so tight a line that it practically disappeared. "You will be a Queen. Is that not worth making the last years of a man's life happier?" he snapped tersely. Margaret had known him long enough to understand how much effort he was putting into keeping his temper in check. But she couldn't stop herself –

"You had Katherine! You loved her! Why do you insist on abusing me like this? I'm not a chest of gold you can send to Portugal to suit Wolsey's diplomatic interests! I'm your _sister!"_ she yelled. "Do not make me marry him!"

"I am your _King_!" he roared.

"You are my _brother!_ I knew you when you were the lowly Duke of York!"

Before she knew what was happening, Henry's arm swung through the air and his hand collided painfully with the side of her face. She gasped involuntarily in shock and pain, the force behind his blow causing her to stumble. Margaret gingerly raised her fingers to the loud red mark the blow had left behind. Her blue-green eyes found his and she glared at him accusingly. Henry, to his credit, looked cowed, and was not willing to hold her gaze. Instead, he flexed his fingers wonderingly, as though they did not belong to him.

For a brief time in Margaret's memory, this furious, violent man had been her sweet, chivalrous elder brother – Harry. But now there was a new Harry, a boy just as sweet and chivalrous to his younger sister. She hoped, for Mary's sake, that her nephew had not inherited the Tudor temperament.

Margaret could see no further point in arguing with Henry. She curtsied with unsteady knees and lowered her stinging face. "I am your Your Majesty's servant," she whispered.

By the time she had backed out of the room, hot tears streamed down her face and clouded her vision. She could not accept that Henry had just struck her simply because she wanted to be happy when she married. Perhaps he could no longer accept that marriage was a happy business. But as far as she could see, his misery had nothing to do with her. Even if he was still sorrowful over Katheirne's death, he had no business, King or no King, inflicting that sorrow on her or on anyone else.

As far as she could see, he was becoming dangerously like their father. Margaret vowed to everything in her power to keep that from happening – for her niece and nephew's sakes, for her own, and most of all, for England's.

* * *

**8 March**

**Hatfield**

Prince Harry remained at Hatfield for a week and a half after his sister's birthday. In the opinion of many of Mary's maids-in-waiting, he had _over_stayed his welcome. There was considerable more unnecessary ceremony involved in the care of the Prince of Wales than there was in the daily routine of his sister. Harry probably wouldn't have minded if they had gone about without all the pomp and parade his presence demanded, but the King was not nearly as ignorant of hi son's welfare as he was his daughter's.

Harry was pleased to spend so much time with Mary, having had long since decided that she was the most darling little girl in England. As for Mary, she never tired of his company and his stories about France – which included the mostly made-up stories about Princess Charlotte.

But no matter how much he loved his sister, Harry missed his lessons and his friends. There were few if any boys at Hatfield, and he'd long since outgrown being cared for solely by women. Thankfully, his escort to Richmond was due to arrive this morning. Mary's new ladies were to accompany them. Though she was obviously disappointed by her brother's impending departure, Mary seemed impatiently excited to meet the young women who would be entering her service. She stood in Hatfield's cozy entrance hall, one hand in her governess' and the other in Harry's.

"Your Highness, please," Lady Salisbury reprimanded. Mary had been rolling up and down on the balls of her little feet, trying to see out of the frosty windows. She glanced up at Harry as though to appeal to his authority, but he gave her a stern look. It wouldn't do to have her not heeding Lady Salisbury's commands. She may have been the King's daughter, but she had to learn discipline and self-control.

The doors swung open. A gale of frigid air rushed in, followed promptly by servants in the livery of the Prince of Wales. Behind them entered four girls. None could have been more than twenty or twenty-one, probably too old even then to serve a five-year-old princess. Harry observed that they were all quite lovely. The youngest-looking two were fair. Another had mouse-colored plait and stared nervously at the floor. He lamented at once that the fourth stood so far from him. She wore a modest yet flattering cerulean gown that her confident, flashing blue eyes.

Lady Salisbury finally heeded Mary and led her mistress forward. The liveried servants bowed low and parted. All the girls curtsied deeply too. They all obediently murmured, "Your Highness" or "my lady."

"You may rise," Mary piped up authoritatively. They all did so.

The two young women in front introduced themselves, and were then ushered off to the side to allow the other two to do the same. The mousy-haired girl barely raised her eyes and informed them in a whispery voice that she was Lady Mary Talbot. She glanced anxiously towards her companion. Harry watched breathlessly. He didn't think he'd ever seen so beautiful a girl.

With a brow raised, Lady Salisbury observed her critically – more critically, Harry thought, than she had the rest. "And you?"

She inclined her dark head, unfazed by this inspection. "Anne Boleyn, my lady." She looked away from the older woman and knelt down in front of her little charge until the two of them were level. The silence was almost tangible. Everyone was painfully aware of this break with tradition. Even Harry was put slightly on edge.

Lady Anne smiled warmly. "I once served the Queen of France, Your Highness, and I met her daughter Princess Charlotte several times. Please believe me when I say Charlotte's beauty cannot surpass your own."

A long moment passed. Mary held Anne's gaze steadily. Both light-eyed and dark haired, they could have passed for sisters, or even for mother and daughter. Then, suddenly, the little girl grinned and giggled. "Thank you, my lady Anne," she chimed. She tugged her hand out of Lady Salisbury's grasp and snatched up Anne's. Harry knew his sister well enough to see she'd decided that she liked this new lady of hers. Anne followed her obediently until they stopped in front of Harry.

Gaping at the two of them, Harry thought that he barely came up to her shoulder, and that it made him feel very young. "This is my brother Harry," Mary informed her attendant enthusiastically.

As if she had not recognized this before, Anne sunk into a graceful curtsy and lowered her eyes. "Your Highness," she whispered.

Harry seized slender fingers and kissed the back of her hand as soon as she straightened. He reminded himself that he looked like a love-sick boy rather than the heir to the throne of England, and tried to form a coherent sentence. Somehow, he managed to string words together. "I hope you will make a good friend for my sister, Lady Anne."

Mollified, he turned away from her and towards Mary. The siblings were so wrapped up in saying their farewells – Mary's tearful – that neither noticed Anne slip away with Lady Mary Talbot and the rest of the women. Mary wrapped her arms as tight as a noose about her brother's neck. "Don't go," she pleaded pitifully. "I don't want you to go, Harry. I'll miss you too much." She was weeping into Harry's shoulder. The display of regality she had prided herself on had vanished now.

He stroked her hair for a few moments. "Hush now, Mary. Be a big girl. I'm sure Papa will come see you again soon, and you have your new ladies to keep you company."

She sniffled. "But – "

The opportunity before him, Harry pecked his sister's cheek and freed himself from her vice-like embrace. "I'll see you before you know it." And without knowing if his promise had any truth whatsoever, the young Prince of Wales, surrounded by his escort, fled like a coward from Hatfield before his sister's tears could sway him again. He only glanced over his shoulder once he was sure he could not see Mary – and she could not see him. His father had let himself be overcome with his emotions ever since Mama's death. If Harry didn't check his, he would be headed down the same self-destructive path.

**22 March**

Easter was close at hand. Princess Mary's ladies' hopes for an invitation to Court for the holiday were slowly ebbing away. Only meek Mary Talbot and Lady Anne Boleyn did not seem to mind much. She quite enjoyed Hatfield. The air was crisp and clean, as was the household itself, unlike Francis' raucous court. Life was slow and peaceful and easy. Sometimes she was called upon to tutor Princess Mary a little in French, or to amuse her as the weather steadily improved, but otherwise she was very much in charge of her own life, unlike at Hever, where Thomas Boleyn pulled all the strings.

She found that she had become exceedingly fond, almost foolishly so, of the King's daughter. Princess Mary was an endearing child, and the preference of Anne over all her other ladies save her governess had not abated since Anne's arrival. She demanded to know just what kind of girl Princess Charlotte of France was. Would she be a good, dutiful wife for Harry? Would she like Mary as a sister? Would she make as beautiful a Queen of England as Mary's mama? Anne mostly made up silly tales to satisfy Mary's curiosity that corroborated as closely as possible with the Prince of Wales' fables.

The March day was surprisingly warm, and Mary had no desire to remain inside and sit through her dull lessons. She ran to Lady Mary and Anne while the latter was consumed with an engrossing French novel. The princess tugged on her sleeve.

"Will you play hide-and-seek in the courtyard with me, Lady Anne?" she requested sweetly. Of course, Anne replied that she would. A request from her was a veiled command. Only Lady Salisbury could truly chastise Princess Mary, and even then, her power could only go so far. She did not want the King to find her ill-suited for the task and to dismiss her.

Mary Talbot fetched their mistress' cloak. Then Anne took her by the hand and led her outside, trailed dutifully by several other ladies.

"I will catch you first," Mary announced. She turned around, hiding her clear grey eyes in little hands and counting loudly. Anne wove her way through the flowerbeds and trees and rosebushes, looking for a place that would be neither too difficult nor too easy for Mary to find. No child, not even a Princess, enjoyed winning simply because they were allowed to – though she was, in many ways, for everyone (except for Lady Salisbury and Anne herself) seemed to entertain the notion that losing would do her ill.

She lifted her pale pink skirts and hurried towards one of the low hedges, staring at the stones beneath her feet rather than the path ahead. Mary still counted, more faintly now, somewhere behind her.

Anne collided with something very solid and tumbled with ill grace to the ground. Dazed, she looked up in an effort to distinguish what could have caused her fall. "Please forgive me!" It was a man's voice. All of a sudden he was kneeling down beside her, trying to help her to her feet. His hand rested on the small of her back, her fingers grasped his arm. Slowly, he came into focus, or else she could finally concentrate.

She drew in a sharp, surprised breath.

Gazing down at her with a stupefied expression was none other than the King of England!

Though she was usually self-confident and level-headed when confronted with authority, Anne both heard and felt her heart pounding in her breast. The wild look remained in the king's grey-blue eyes. Was he angry? Why would he say nothing, or help her, if that was what he had intended to do? She stammered, "Your Majesty…forgive me." It _was_ her fault, but she could not have been expected to know the King was going to be around the corner! "I was…Princess Mary and I were playing." And there was Mary's voice, almost to a hundred now.

And without warning, the King lowered his head, and his lips pressed against hers. The kiss numbed her. She couldn't react.

She wasn't Mary. She didn't want this. But he was the King.

Anne knew that what she wanted would no longer make any difference.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter Three

Welcome new reviewers **QuieraStrawberry9**, **Marauder Hinata Eldarion**, **Jen Rock**, **butterflymuppet**, **KKminn**, **tigeruawish**, **Jnstar86**, **BoleynofAragon21**, and **Eloria-x**. And thanks to everyone for their feedback!

**A/N: **I'm so sorry this has taken me so long, and that it's deplorably short…especially since the last chapter was short, too! But once I started writing, I was too eager to get something up for those of you who've been so patient with me! So, forgive the length (or lack thereof) and enjoy while I get started on the next chapter! Oh...and I'm sorry about any timeline bugs I might have overlooked, like Mary Boleyn's marriage.

_Please leave a review!_

* * *

Henry hardly dared to breathe when he drew his lips away from hers. God had guided him back to his angel's side! He still had no idea what the girl's name was, and he no longer cared. Here, in this place, she could not slip away into the crowd. Here, he could make her his. It took him a long moment to realize the foolishness of that thought—to realize what she was saying. _Princess Mary and I were playing,_ she had stammered as he helped her to her feet. _Princess Mary. _She was here to serve his daughter Mary. And he, Henry, was here to visit Mary. With a queasy twist of his stomach, he wondered how he could be so senseless. One beautiful woman had driven his thoughts of his precious little girl completely out of his head. Instead, he was consumed with lust. He wanted to bed one of Mary's ladies, in her own household!

A small voice in the back of Henry's mind chided him that he had not lusted after a woman in a very long time. Until seeing this vision in France, his desire for a new wife, a mistress, for any woman had died with Katherine. But Mary was a part of Katherine, and would it not be betraying both his wife and daughter to bed this lady, bound to obey and serve the princess?

She was so beautiful. Up close, alone, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment and surprise, she was lovelier than he had imagined all those months ago. Her complexion was fresh, pure cream; her hair, the finest black silk; her eyes, a winter morning sky. And now, her lips were rose petals.

How could God deny him this indulgence, this beauty?

"I beg you, my lady, pardon my boldness," Henry muttered. "But…I feel as though I know you from somewhere. May I—"

Before he could finish, Princess Mary came stumbling forward, crying, "I found you, Lady Anne, I found you!" At first, she did not seem to understand that someone else was with her lady, but soon her eyes widened and she cried out in delight. "Papa!"

Henry pulled Mary into his arms and looked away from his companion. His daughter felt heavy and cumbersome, though he knew her to be a tiny thing—a slender, willowy, almost delicate child. He focused on committing the small piece of information to his memory – Anne. Anne. What an exquisite name! Belonging to anyone else, it would have sounded so plain…

Lady Anne's musical voice seeped through the veil of his thoughts. Her words were terse. "I apologize, my lady princess. We will have to finish our game another time." She curtsied to Mary, who was no longer interested in either hide-and-seek or her lady. With pain in his heart, Henry watched her go. He fought valiantly against the urge to run after her. After all, how did he know he would not lose her a second time?

Mary finally realized that he was paying her no attention whatsoever. "Papa?" she demanded more loudly.

He forced himself to look down at her. "I'm afraid I haven't brought Harry with me this time, sweetheart," he said gently. Her face only fell a little, but Henry was genuinely sorry he had not sent word to the Prince of Wales' household. It would have been unfair to Mary if he had come and spent any time with her, using her brother as an alternative. Still, even the agony of Katherine's death had not made Henry into a selfless man. He cared for his children, but not enough to put his own desires aside. "We shall have fun without him." His only hope was for Mary to disregard the flat tone of his voice—to not see her father's purpose at Hatfield was no longer to spend time with her.

Later that afternoon, the King and his daughter dined together privately. Anne was grateful, for the time allowed her to collect her thoughts. She had not breathed a word of what had happened to any of Princess Mary's other ladies. They would not understand, or at least not why she was unhappy about it. But to Anne, it was as though her worst nightmare had reared its ugly head, and now threatened to haunt her dreams forever. The last thing she wanted was her sister's life—being used, abused, forgotten. If the King wanted her, she had little choice. Thomas Boleyn would be thrilled that his younger, cleverer daughter had succeeded where Mary had failed. He would sign her away without considering her happiness, without asking her what she thought ought to be done.

Panic rose in Anne's chest every time she inhaled. It had penetrated the air around her. Breathing was difficult. Why was she letting this upset her so? Henry had kissed her once. For all she knew, he had already forgotten her. Mary was, after all, the child of his beloved wife, his late queen. They said that since Katherine's death, he had been interested in no woman at all…

There was no reason to tell anyone of this, Anne decided. What her father did not know could hurt neither him nor her. She knew what he would say. He would suggest—no, _demand_ that she give in to Henry's lust. For a moment, they would all be on top of the world. Why did he not understand that Anne wanted to fall in love and marry and live a simple, quiet, happy life? She had enjoyed her time at the French court, but serving Queen Claude had instilled something of that great lady's character in Anne's soul. She enjoyed the peace of Hatfield. She enjoyed playing with Princess Mary and sometimes reading to her or coaching her in French.

She had no desire to be damaged goods, handed off to the first man who would accept the King's bribe. Mary already suffered that fate. Would her father—her Papa, the man who had once loved her so dearly—condemn her to it, too? Would he discard _both _ofhis daughters so carelessly?

A sharp tap on the door roused her. Anne had hidden herself away in the little chamber she shared with Lady Mary Talbot, and assumed it was she who came to collect something. Unthinkingly, she went to the door and unlocked it. When it opened, however, it revealed not Mary Talbot but King Henry. He wore a determined expression. "My lady, I would speak with you."

She did not know what the proper thing to say was, but her terror of being seduced and bedded by this handsome man overcame her and ruled her tongue. She drew herself up, trying to be courageous and at the same time unapproachable. "Your Majesty, I think it would be most inappropriate for a maiden to admit a man access to her bedchamber alone," she replied. The words tumbled from her mouth, and despite herself, Anne flushed. However she felt, this was the King of England. She was nothing more than his servant. She lowered her eyes, remembering she had not even curtsied.

The King was silent for several moments. Had she angered him? The words had been somewhat rash, she supposed. But then he inclined his head. "Yes, I suppose you are right. Forgive my imprudence. Perhaps Lady Bryan could act as your…chaperone."

Anne dropped into a belated curtsy. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the floor, her heart thudding in her chest. Obviously her lessons in flirtation and fashion had been well-learned if the King could so quickly be drawn in. Yet she'd learned those things not to become a royal mistress—she hoped to make a good match, and to assure her future husband, whomever he might be that she still had her honor. Of one thing Anne was sure: was no simple girl or silly damsel whom King Henry could take advantage of as he pleased.

"Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness, but the Princess Mary so seldom enjoys your company, and I have no doubt that it is your daughter you came to see." Her poor little mistress often wished aloud that her Papa or her brother Harry would come more often to Hatfield to visit with her. And Anne could only hope that the King's affection for Mary could somehow shield her from his lust for herself.

Yet when she looked up, she saw the inexplicable look of despair on his face. He opened his mouth, then promptly shut it again and turned away towards the door. With his hand on the door, the King half-whispered, "I only wished to thank you for your kindness towards my daughter. She speaks most highly of you, Lady Anne. I hear that you are helping her perfect her French?" She could hear the smile in his voice. Perhaps she had been too quick to speak, for his love for Mary rang in every syllable. How much of it was love for his dead wife, too, she wondered?

He coughed. "I would also ask you to excuse my behavior this morning." Though he still would not face her, still made as though he were about to leave, the King continued to speak. "Are you, then, Sir Thomas Boleyn's other daughter?" Other daughter? So he remembered the rejected Mary!

Suddenly angry, Anne gritted her teeth. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The King spun around to look at her. His blue eyes danced with laughter. One of her hands clenched into a fist. Enjoying Mary's humiliation! It was unbearable. If he had been any other man…

"Anne and not Mary. I presume that you were never King Francis' 'English mare.'"

Realization dawned on her. He hadn't wanted Mary at all! Her sister's words echoed in her mind: it had been as though he'd been looking for _another_ Mary Boleyn. Anne shook her head. But had King Henry known then that it was she and not Mary whom he desired, God only knew what her fate would be now. And now that he _did_ know, what was to become of her? If he had really only come to thank her…she slowly uncurled her fingers.

"Your Majesty, I beg of you…my sister was only too happy to go to King Francis' bed, and would have gladly graced yours. But you are right, I am not Mary Boleyn, nor will I ever be. I have no desire to be your mistress and then be married to a poor knight, the laughingstock of Court!" Anne's voice, ordinarily so firm, trembled with emotion—and with terror. "My father will call me impudent for daring to say so, but it s the truth!" Let him punish her! Let them both punish her! She would bear her father's berating words—and perhaps a strap of leather—if it left her a virtuous maiden still.

When he said nothing, nor made any move to storm out of the little room, Anne added more confidently, "My maidenhead belongs only to my husband. I am flattered if you…desire me, Your Majesty, but in this matter I cannot afford to be accommodating."

A small smile appeared on the King's handsome face. "I admire your resolve, my lady," he murmured. "And you are correct. I came to Hatfield for my daughter's sake. But perhaps you will accompany your sister to Court soon? I hear that she has married Sir William Carey. He is a good man. I wish them every happiness…and I daresay Lady Carey could use an apology for my abrupt behavior." His eyes darkened, and she had no doubt he was thinking of his own married bliss, cruelly cut short.

She thanked him and allowed him to kiss her hand as he left without making any promises.

But as soon as he was gone, Anne sunk down onto her thin mattress and wept for all that Mary had lost—and all she might well lose should the King command it. Anne laid still and silent by the time Mary Talbot came in. She hardly dared breathe. The best she could do now was pray that God would protect her from both her family's ambition and the King's reported insatiable hunger.

**14 May**

**Calais, France**

Princess Margaret Tudor stood sullenly looking out over the English Channel, back at the green-grey cliffs of Dover. Her heart cried out in misery: _home_! Family, memory, everything remained in England. And nothing loomed for her but misery and heartache. Ridiculous as it was for her to hope for anything but a diplomatic marriage, she had hoped until her brother had told her two months ago that she was to sail for Portugal and marry their toothless old King.

How she had wept and raged and pounded on his chest since then, begging him not to force her—as a brother who loved his sister, as a king who loved his subject. But nothing could sway Henry and so here she was, after a welcome delay that had forced their ship to dock in Calais and wait for a storm to pass. Every day that passed brought her closer to marriage. She dreaded each passing moment.

Where was the lively, fun-loving redheaded girl who could, at times, bring a smile even to the face of their hard-hearted father? Where was the sister who had learned to dance by standing on her brother Harry's feet?

That same brother had seen her exiled to be the so-called wife of an old man. She remembered how their father had considered marrying Katherine of Aragon before he died, after the death of their poor, sweet mother. For all he proclaimed to love Elizabeth of York, how could he do such a thing? How could he even suggest the possibility to poor Katherine? Margaret had not been with her sister-in-law at the time, but she could well imagine the Spanish princess' fervent prayers that God deliver her, perhaps even send her home to Spain. Margaret was certainly praying fervently that God let her cross those twenty miles of water now, so that she might remain in England.

But God, like her heartless brother, was deaf to her pleas.

"Your Highness?" It was Charles Brandon, her brother's handsome friend, who spoke from behind her.

The woman who became the Duchess of Suffolk was lucky indeed—a woman to be envied! How much better to have a virile, strong young man as a husband than one old enough to be her grandfather. As a child, she'd thought him annoying, even mean. Now so much had changed. Now, what wouldn't she have given to be marrying him?

She turned her head imperiously. Since Katherine's death, Margaret too had changed—she had become cold and haughty, and she certainly wasn't going to change her ways now that she would be forced to rule beside the accursed King of Portugal. Hoping for Brandon's hand was, of course, even more ridiculous than the hopes she'd once held of a love match. Besides, he could be just as infuriating now as he had been then.

He cleared his throat. "Your Highness, we must sail today. The captain asks that you gather your ladies and come aboard at once."

Margaret stared at him for a long moment. He met her gaze evenly, as though she was still that wayward girl who he had so much fun tormenting. Was he still enjoying her torment now? Was he immature enough to be amused by her predicament and that her tearful pleadings had not swayed Henry's heart? But she was not simply his best friend's wayward sister now! She was far above this so-called Duke of Suffolk. A Duke! Imagine the indignity of it!

"Thank you, _Your Grace_," she replied derisively, the tips of her mouth curving up slightly in a smile.

Since she could not belittle her brother—could not make him miserable for doing this to her—she could take her anger out on Brandon. Her voice dripped with poison; her eyes were icy. She longed for him to take the bait and rise to her challenge.

He disappointed her. "Your Highness," he repeated, bending slightly at the waist in a proper little bow. Then he left. Of course, he was a peer now. He could not participate in the childish spats of Margaret Tudor. As she listened to his fading footsteps, a single tear slid down her cheek. With a sickening twist of her stomach, she thought that this might be the last time she ever stood on English soil. Perhaps Henry would expect her to marry another Portuguese noble, or send her straightaway into a second diplomatic marriage.

Margaret tore her eyes away from the faint English coastline and went to hunt down her ladies. "We must sail today," she reported sullenly, "and be aboard the ship as soon as possible."

The ladies cooed and patted their lady's arm. But none of them would have to stay. She would suffer, alone, in Portugal…until the Portuguese King was called to heaven (or hell, she thought spitefully). A bitter smile lit up Margaret's face. "With God as my witness, after I'm a widow, I'll sooner marry Charles Brandon than allow my brother to sell me again." For good measure, she crossed herself and hurriedly ran after her ladies.

**  
19 May**

**Hever**

In preparation to accompany Mary and her brother-in-law Will Carey to Whitehall, Anne had returned home to Hever. She missed little Princess Mary, and genuinely dreaded going to court. Thankfully the King had said nothing about his personal interest in her. He'd simply written Thomas Boleyn with a casual invitation: he recalled that Boleyn had a second daughter, and that she was in the service of his daughter. Was not Lady Carey accompanying her husband to court? Perhaps she would enjoy her sister's company.

In her hands, however, she held a letter which both terrified her and thrilled her. _My sweetheart,_ it began—as though she was his sweetheart, Anne had scoffed—but had developed into a truly passionate composition. He had scribbled a few lines of poetry and poured his heart out in the letter.

He must have taken to heart what she had said about not knowing each other. And at the end of the letter, something even more remarkable—_I shall not forget what you have said concerning the good fortune of your future husband._ Anne was clever enough to see beneath the words, into their deeper meaning. She closed her eyes. That the King of England was even considering such a thing…

Suddenly the door to her room burst open. Anne frantically stashed away the letter—God forbid it should fall into her father's hands! He could not know until it was impossible to hide King Henry's affection…

Rather than Thomas Boleyn, Mary stood there. She was alight with happiness, the picture of joy. Upon seeing her little sister, she cried, "Anne! Oh, Anne, I have missed you!"

Anne flew to Mary's side and embraced her. Though her life had not been quite as lonely at Hatfield as Mary's must have been in the company of her new husband, she had also longed at times for her sister's company. As she drew away, Mary cupped her cheek fondly. Her eyes danced and sparkled; her skin shone. Something was not the same with Mary. Anne was sure her sister was not so in love with Will Carey. Her marriage could not have changed her so dramatically. "Mary, you are glowing!" she exclaimed. "What has happened? You must tell me!" But she had a good idea of what she would be told, and giggled despite herself.

Someday, Anne thought suddenly, she might bear a King's children. As long as she was also that King's wife—though it was hardly the love match of which she dreamt—she could not complain. And yet…Henry certainly seemed to love her, or to think he did. Whom had he asked to find out that she adored music and poetry?

"I am with child," Mary announced giddily, confirming Anne's suspicions.

Squealing anew, Anne wrapped her arms tightly around her sister for a second time. Then she placed her hand tenderly on Mary's still-flat abdomen. A child growing there! Perhaps not a child of passion, but more than enough to make Mary more radiantly beautiful than ever before. She felt both amazed and envious, for she recalled with pleasure her afternoons with the Princess Mary, who had looked to her as both a playmate and a mentor.

It took her a moment to realize that her sister stared at her in amazement. "Anne!" she exclaimed with laughter bubbling from her lips. "I never knew you were so interested in motherhood, my darling."

Anne beamed at her. "I did not know, either, till this moment! I suppose my service of the King's poor motherless daughter have changed me," she admitted pleasantly. It filled her with some unlooked for joy to know that she had the capacity to look forward to her own lying-in, though it might be many years in the future.

"Speaking of the King," she said suddenly, "he has sent me a letter. I met him at Hatfield. Only you must promise not to tell our father." Anne's voice was suddenly grave. Mary's fingers closed gently around her own and gave them a reassuring squeeze. She remembered why she had longed for Mary's sweet presence at Hatfield sometimes, even when there was plenty of peace and comfort in that household to begin with.

She snatched the letter from the bed and handed it to her sister, whose eyes eagerly drank in the King's own hand. "Look, he signs it 'your humble servant,' Anne…do you think he will take you as his—"

But Anne's eyes narrowed angrily. "No, never. I'll only go to the King's bed as his wife!" she snapped.

The declaration left Mary in stunned silence until Anne grinned. Unthinkingly, she tossed aside the letter, and proceeded to describe all the little details of her life as Lady Carey. By the time George came to fetch his sisters, saying that Sir Will grew impatient with their reunion, the letter lay utterly forgotten. Outside in the glittering May sunshine, Anne was happy to play the charming, unclaimed young lady. When her brother-in-law proclaimed her the most enchanting thing he'd ever beheld, she smiled modestly and curtsied. He helped her onto his horse once he'd seen to his wife, and she murmured close to his ear, "I congratulate you, sir, on your happy news."

His nodded appreciatively, and she was overjoyed—for the sake of her sister and her unborn niece or nephew—to see that Will Carey was as eager to become a father as Mary was a mother. What did the King matter, when they were so happy then and there?

Yet even as they rode away towards London, and Anne, perhaps, towards courtship of the highest order, George discovered the discarded letter. He obediently delivered it into his father's hands. Reading it brought a thin smile to his face. He wondered, as his daughter had, if he could not arrange something more ambitious than an affair for Anne. Perhaps His Majesty's hunger would drive him to heap a higher honor upon "his sweetheart"—a crown.


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: **A much quicker update than I was expecting. Hope you enjoy this chapter. I took some scenes from the show and bent them to my own purposes...and yeah, I realize Margaret's section is longer than everyone else's. Sorry about that! Enjoy the chapter and sit tight till the next!

_Please leave a review!_

**Off the Spanish Coast**

**30 May**

Princess Margaret thought she might go mad if she had to play one more game of cards with her ladies. She had been listening to the inappropriate jokes and raucous laughter of Brandon and his men from the cabin next to hers for two weeks now. Instead of being annoyed and offended like she ought to have been, like her ladies were, Margaret hungered for the male company. She was convinced that she would never admit it to Brandon's face, or hint to her ladies, that cards and embroidery was not adequately entertaining, especially since she suspected that the Portuguese court would not be anything like what she was accustomed to.

But eventually she threw down the cards she held and let out a frustrated sigh. Enough was enough. They were all suffering from being confined in this small space. It smelled like sweat and the mead they'd been reduced to drinking every day—the small supply of wine was naturally reserved for her lord Suffolk and herself. Margaret felt like she needed more of it to bear each passing day, and carefully rationed the precious ruby liquid.

"My lady…" one of them stammered, rising from her cramped seat by the window. Outside, a storm raged. Occasional bursts of lightning illuminated the cabin as though the sun had broken through.

Why should she have to make excuses for her behavior? Margaret was the daughter, granddaughter and sister of three Kings of England, and was a Princess in her own right! And for whatever it was worth, she was also soon to become the Queen of Portugal. Her head turned towards the lady who had spoken, grey-green eyes narrowed dangerously as if challenging her to criticize that infamous Tudor temper, the very same which had prompted Henry to slap her.

Remembering the blow, she felt rather bad for bristling so easily, and raised her hand to brush against her cheek. Her memory prompted it to sting long after Henry's red mark had faded. Her determination to marry a man of her choosing once the King was dead roared to life anew.

She was, after all, a Tudor—stubborn as well as short-tempered, but also beautiful and desirable.

One of them tried again. "My lady, are you—"

Trying to be kinder, Margaret smiled. "Lady Isabel, please inform my lord of Suffolk that I would speak with him whenever he has the opportunity." With that, she gathered up her cards, rescuing them from the violent rocking and swaying of the ship and began her game anew. The promise of such stimulating, maybe even infuriating, conversation on its way, she became more absorbed in the slap of each rectangular card as it hit the rough wooden table. Isabel curtsied and scurried from the room. But after she returned, neither bringing the Duke nor any promise that he would come as soon as he might get away from his rowdy men, Margaret began to view the dull pastime as distastefully as he had before. Leave it to Charles Brandon to keep her, the King's sister, waiting! If they had been at Court, he wouldn't have dared do such a thing…peer of the realm or no peer.

The knock on her door hardly even made Margaret's eyes flicker up from the table. In sauntered a bemused-looking Brandon. He clutched the cabinet by the door to steady himself. She still did not look at him.

"You asked to see me, Your Highness?" he asked smugly.

As if she hadn't sent for him an hour or more ago, Margaret thought scathingly. Perhaps he was drunk. It was the only charitable explanation she could muster—both for his tone and his late arrival.

She angrily smacked another card onto the table. "Only to ask how much longer we must be at sea." Her voice was matter-of-fact, the same she might have used with a servant. She wanted him to know that he had no purpose other than as a kind of messenger boy between herself, of royal blood and too haughty to associate with commoners, and their captain.

"With fair wind, two more days."

Did she detect disappointment in Brandon's words? Margaret looked up in wonder. Then she collected her cards and began to shuffle. "Do you play cards, Your Grace?"

Brandon had the nerve to grin at her! After a long pause, filled only by the croaking and creaking of the wooden beams and creaking of the lanterns dotted around the dimly-lit cabin, he replied, "Sometimes. Your Highness."

Smiling slowly, she raised her eyes. "What game shall we play?"

His grin faded, though even in this faint light Margaret recognized the desire ablaze in his dark eyes. Oh, if only Brandon knew that she was already playing a game with him? Something had to keep her entertained, what with this miserable voyage promising only an immanent, inescapable and doubtlessly miserable marriage. She may as well have her last taste of handsome, cultured Englishmen in this newly-created Duke! And if, through her games, she came to the King of Portugal's bed something less than pure and virtuous, so be it. As a Tudor, she understood the power of lust, and knew only too well that amorous blood coursed through her veins. Why waste all of it on an old man with one foot in his cold grave? Yes…better to remember a man's hunger—and its fruit—even if that hunger belonged to the insufferable Charles Brandon.

Or maybe it was the best situation she could hope for. Yes, revenge on her ambitious and callous brother, that his own best friend might deflower her before she ever entered into this coveted diplomatic match! Margaret's soul sang with delight at her scheme. And like any Tudor, she dismissed the consequences with an imperious wave of her hand. They were in the future, and everyone knew the future was as yet unwritten.

Brandon sat down. "You choose," he suggested. But they had both already chosen, hadn't they?

She declared their game and he laid down his trump. His eyes never left her face, nor his smile his lips. He was, she decided, unbearably handsome, and averted her gaze to his card. "Kings." Perhaps this was a more dangerous pastime than she had imagined. Brandon was no pawn—for herself or her brother.

"How appropriate," he said sardonically. "Your Highness."

"Wine?" Her offer came out clipped, tense. She swallowed hard.

He finally glanced down to examine his cards. "As you please," he agreed. Lady Isabel immediately poured him some from their silver pitcher. Her mistress busied herself with analyzing Brandon's chiseled features—more rugged, more common, than Henry's or any nobleman's ought to be, she decided. Undoubtedly Brandon was that—common and yet quite exceptional. A King's friend, the son of another King's servant, who had been raised unthinkably high.

"Your Highness must be looking forward with great anticipation to your wedding." His words were a cruel jibe that shook Margaret back to her senses, and to reality. How she loathed him! What would bring him to say such a thing, which cut her to the quick? Did he know how she'd railed against Henry, practically groveling at his feet in hopes that he would be merciful and change his mind? No, he knew only the good side of Henry—the good, and the tragic, for what had Henry been if not for grief-stricken and lifeless save for his bouts of temper for the past five years? Still, she doubted if he knew what it was to be struck so low, not only by one's king but one's own brother! The thought made her hate him all the more.

Brandon opened his mouth again, but Margaret cut him off. "Don't tease me, I don't like it," she warned. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

For all the good they did her, she might have saved her words. He leaned forward just slightly, still with that infuriating, irresistible smile. "Will you like it," he baited her, "when an old man tries to make love to you?"

It took all her self-control not to throw her cards across the table. If they had been at Court… "Your Grace goes too far, already," she murmured. "I'm not Harry's baby sister now, nor am I the poor motherless Princess." She refrained from assuring him that she would rather be an old maid than finally be married this way. She would not give him the satisfaction. His words changed her mind.

Being forever indebted to him, hoping he would keep her secret, was not worth it. Margaret did not want to forever be haunted by the memory of either of them—the bittersweet love-making of Charles Brandon, expert as it no doubt was; nor the clumsy, unpleasant experience of lying complacent under the thick-waisted King of Portugal. Thankfully he took the hint. They finished their game in grudging silence. Leaving his wine untouched, Brandon rose and bowed to her. "Your Highness," he muttered. Margaret hissed "_Your Grace_" through clenched teeth.

For all her haughtiness and defensiveness, she wished she had not sent Brandon away almost as soon as the door had closed behind him. Her ladies carried on as though there had been no interruption. She sighed, lifted his forgotten cup, and drained the dear wine.

Two days until she could stand on solid ground again.

They would, Margaret knew, be the best or the worst days of her old life.

**Whitehall**

Henry Tudor could barely contain himself. He was in love—blindly, blissfully in love. Even Wolsey was beginning to notice. But the old Cardinal was not worried. Behind the King's back, he had been negotiating possible marriages for His Majesty. Wolsey cast a wide net hoping th catch the best possible fish. Perhaps King Francis' sister or even sister-in-law; perhaps another Spanish bride. If Charles had a sister or nice himself—the Pope would naturally grant them a dispensation—a bronze-haired beauty from Castile, her warm voice would remind her new bridegroom of more pleasant days. Even an Italian girl would do. After all, His Majesty was still fairly young, wealthy, handsome and overall a desirable husband.

It was good to see that he would take a mistress and free himself once and for all of these chains of grief. The old Queen's soul was well-settled in the Lord's keep by now. Her body was certainly cold in its grave. When the King grew tired of his new love, well, Wolsey could only hope that he would be ready to hear the proposal of another marriage.

Even better, nothing yet threatened the new French alliance, and the Prince of Wales' betrothal seemed to remain on solid ground. Anything could happen, naturally, in a decade, the time it would take for Princess Charlotte—barely old enough to begin her lessons—to be sent to England. Royal betrothals were so often broken and remade that worrying about it now was a pointless endeavor. Really, it was best for everyone that Queen Katherine was dead.

At least, it was best for power-hungry diplomats like Wolsey.

He arrived in the King's audience chamber happily, neither particularly curious nor worried about what His Majesty wanted to speak with him about. No doubt it had to do with his children—something about the upkeep of their household; more funds for the Princess Mary, another sword or pony for young Prince Harry.

"Your Majesty." Wolsey bowed low. The King was being dressed, looking nothing less than magnificent. He was holding himself proudly, like a man set to woo. The idea amused the Cardinal. Henry had not looked so self-satisfied in years…not since he'd secured Princess Catalina's hand in marriage, or the birth of their lusty baby boy. It was all the more reassuring to see such vitality in the young man's eyes. Whomever was chosen to be England's next queen would be a coveted and fortunate lady indeed. And Henry's love interest would not fare badly now, either.

Henry turned around still adjusting his jewels. He grinned. "Ah, Your Eminence! We have a very important matter to discuss with you. It concerns our personal happiness…a matter of our heart."

This was hardly what he had been expecting. "Your Majesty?" Wolsey repeated, surprised.

All at once, Henry dropped his formal tone. "I had never thought to fall in love again after Her Majesty…." He stopped, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment while he temporarily languished in a memory of Katherine. "Yet I have been proven wrong. God has sent me the sweetest of his heavenly host. I intend to make this lady my bride, if it pleases her. I only fear…Your Eminence, she is not of the highest birth, but Plantagenet blood flows in her veins through her mother's side. Will my people accept a Queen from amongst their number?"

Wolsey knew all too well that Henry's grandfather, King Edward IV, had been unmercifully attacked for choosing Elizabeth Wydville as his bride, but she had been his first Queen and the mother of his would-be heirs, those unfortunate Princes in the Tower.

Surely this whim would pass, and he would not have to endure this diplomatic humiliation. For he was certain that—if the lady was kind and loving and if she restored the King to his former visibility and vitality—the English people would embrace her warmly. Their own memories of Queen Katherine were fond, but he suspected that they feared that if His Majesty did not remarry, the succession could be endangered.

Hoping to salvage some ground on which to stand, Wolsey smiled thinly. "I am sure that the kingdom would benefit more handsomely from a foreign match, though I should never think to undermine Your Majesty's happiness."

As he had feared, however, Henry's face hardened. "We have made peace with Spain and France, both through my son the Prince of Wales," he countered. "I asked you if my people would accept an English lady as their Queen, Your Eminence. I am sure you only hope to benefit England by trying to arrange a second advantageous marriage for me…but how quickly Your Eminence forgets that I knew love with Her Majesty. I will not settle for anything less now, not in a time of peace, with a strong, clever boy to succeed me!" His blue eyes narrowed at the Cardinal, challenging him to refute his words.

Wolsey bowed his head in defeat. "I am certain that your people would be thrilled by an English Queen, Your Majesty, in light of the fact that this is your second marriage…"

Immediately, the King's good humor was restored. He clapped a hand on Wolsey's shoulder for a moment, then realized that he was not Brandon or Knivert or any of his other friends and promptly let go. "Thank you, Your Eminence," he laughed. "You have greatly pleased us!"

Knowing that to be his dismissal, the Cardinal bowed and backed out of the room. On his way back to his own chambers, Wolsey barely noticed the slender, dark-haired lady standing outside, waiting for an audience with the King. He stopped briefly to acknowledge her—barely more than a girl, really. What could she want with His Majesty's valuable time? He addressed her pleasantly. "My lady."

"Your Eminence." She answered before he even asked. "I have an audience with His Majesty."

He frowned slightly. "Are you new to Court, Lady…?" Whoever she was, this couldn't be the one Henry was talking about, his perspective bride.

Her smile was charming. Wolsey could not deny its sincerity. "Anne Boleyn, Your Eminence. Yes, I have come with my sister Lady Mary Carey. But until recently I served the Princess Mary at Hatfield, and before her, Queen Claude in France. The Field of the Cloth of Gold was quite magnificent," she announced sweetly. "I cannot imagine a better match for His Majesty's son than Princess Charlotte." Then the door was opened. She curtsied to him and hesitated a moment before proceeding to enter the King's audience chamber.

Wolsey stared at the closing door in horror. He crossed himself. The King was courting Thomas Boleyn's daughter! Plantagenet blood through Boleyn's dead wife, a Howard woman…and he knew all too well that the Duke of Norfolk, and Boleyn by association, were not his friends. He suddenly wished he had told the King that the English would revile this lovely creature…

For in truth, he feared they would be all too willing to welcome her into their hearts.

* * *

Anne fell into a deep curtsy, her eyes on the floor, as soon as she entered the King's audience chamber. Her mind was still on her encounter with Cardinal Wolsey. She was perfectly aware of what her father and her uncle Norfolk thought about him. To her, he'd seemed kind enough, but perhaps being kind wasn't a good enough excuse for more or less running the country, as they said Wolsey did. They said he was even posed to become the next pope. Since he'd done nothing to personally affront her, however, she could not spare him much more thought than that at the moment, however. She was—by necessity, she thought—worried about herself and especially her future, standing here after having been summoned by His Majesty.

Unsurprisingly, he was at her side in the space of a heartbeat. Anne took note of how much joy was written on his face as he raised her. He looked even more handsome now than when she'd met him at Hatfield. Cliché as it was, he seemed a new man entirely. She wished she appeared half as content as he did. But in his excitement, the King likely overlooked how tensely Anne held herself. He was blind to her apprehension.

"Lady Anne," he breathed. Both of his hands closed over one of hers. He raised it to his lips. "I have just had the most wonderful news from Cardinal Wolsey, sweetheart. He says nothing stands in our way…that the people will welcome you as my wife."

King Henry had already endured so much. It was not for her to add to his pain, but the idea of becoming his wife still made Anne uneasy. She was, by now, truly fond of his company. Heeding her words, he had taken her riding twice already. And yet, for her Henry, the amiable man who so skillfully courted her affection was entirely separate from the King of England, the figure to whom she curtsied and whom she addressed as "Your Majesty". While she might come to love Henry—might even dream of being his bride—Anne had little desire to become a high-and-mighty Queen.

And already, it broke her heart to envision the road which stretched out before them. Henry dreamed of raising her that high. He saw both a grand royal wedding and an awe-inspiring coronation. He had already begun to lavish her with priceless jewels. On the other hand, he wanted magical moments of privacy and passion, of a darling little family.

She understood what wanted Henry perfectly. He wanted Anne to be his Queen Guinevere…he not only wanted to be her Sir Lancelot, but her King Arthur as well.

One delicate tear slipped from her sapphire eyes and glided down her cheek. Anne didn't long to be Guinevere—a woman whose love for two men tore her asunder and hurt all three of them. She wanted one lover who could be husband, lord and father all in the same breath. How could he ever be that man for her? No matter how much she loved Henry, or how much she respected the King… She could not look him in the eye or even smile. Smiling would be lying. She would not lie to this man whose love was so true.

"You weep for joy." It was not a question, though she heard the ring of hope there. Henry released her hand and brought his thumb up to brush the offending tear away. Then he cupped her cheek lovingly with his hand. "I have told you how great the love I bear you is, sweetheart. Would you take me for a liar?"

Another woman may have thrown herself into his arms and confessed her deepest heart in a torrent of sobs. She, however, laid her hand against his and fixed her eyes to a point over his shoulder. "I do not find fault in your words, Your Majesty. I find fault in my own treacherous heart. You love so deeply and so quickly—your love burns hot, sire, and swift. But I confess, I fear your love may consume me. I have no designs on sitting on the late Queen's throne." Swallowing, Anne forced herself to continue. His fingers seized hers, curling tightly against hers. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon, for I am but an undeserving and selfish girl. I want your _self_, Henry…your passionate, artistic, devout self!"

He cried out, "You have my self and my soul and—"

She cut across him. "I want to love that man, Henry, but you are also the King, and though I have sworn that I will not come to your bed except as your wife, I do not want to be your Queen, and I must somehow be both if you pursue me!" Her voice caught and broke.

They stared at one another, winter ice colliding with a summer sky. For a long moment, Anne thought Henry would kiss her. When he did not, she moved away, out of his reach. "If you pursue me, I shall have no choice but to love you. And I do not know if I can bear to love you, Henry." And it was the truth, for all her pretty French ways and long flirtatious looks. She inhaled sharply and dropped into a weak-kneed curtsy before she fled, leaving behind a stunned-looking King Henry.

Anne knew at once that she must speak with Mary. With her sister's help, she would figure out what to do.

**Richmond Palace**

**2 June**

For once, it was Princess Mary's household that traveled to Richmond. Prince Harry had suspected his sister would want to escape her little paradise at Hatfield and see the countryside, and that the English people would be overjoyed to see the King's precious five-year-old daughter. They seemed to come out in swarms from their villages whenever he went to court. He also missed his sister—the last time he'd seen her, in March, she'd clung to him and begged him not to go. Ultimately they both benefited from this visit.

Harry, unfortunately, didn't have all the liberties of being a child, or a girl, despite being only ten. However horrible the thought, he knew that his father might die at any time. If that happened, it would be up to him to rule the country, with the help of a Regent and plenty of advisors. He had to focus on his training and his studies. As a result, he couldn't run out to the courtyard and wait for Mary to arrive.

It didn't take long for Mary to find him, though. Harry was hunched over a book, copying out verses in Latin and Greek, but his head immediately snapped up when he heard her shrill, overjoyed cry. "Harry!"

Her poor governess had obviously run to keep up with the enthusiastic girl, who was still in her comfortable, informal traveling gown. Lady Salisbury was about to admonish her, but Harry held up his hand and opened his arms for his sister. Mary rushed headlong into the embrace, securing her little arms tightly around his neck and placing a smacking, little-girl's kiss on his cheek. She giggled when he tickled her and shied away from his hands.

"How have you been? Have you obeyed Lady Salisbury like a good girl?" His studies lay abandoned at once. Harry's eyes darted towards the middle-aged woman, who offered him her most charming smile. "Good. Then I think we both deserve a day to enjoy this beautiful weather!"

Mary grinned in satisfaction and took Harry's hand when he offered it to her. She began to prattle about all the things that had happened at Hatfield in his three-month absence, including a surprise visit from their papa the King. As they strayed out-of-doors, pursued by Lady Salisbury and a handful of guards, she added, "And then Lady Anne, my favorite maid-of-honor, was sent back home by _her_ papa. She was nice to me and played with me, and when she spoke French it was so pretty, like a fairy-story!"

Lady Anne. He vaguely remembered the lovely, dark-haired girl who he'd met briefly at Hatfield. "Do you miss her, Mary?" Perhaps he could appeal to the King to have Anne reinstated. Or perhaps urgent business had called her home and she could not help but return. Mary nodded vigorously. Even her want of her maid-of-honor's company could not dampen her spirits, however. That much was clear. He wondered if Aunt Margaret, who had left England to get married and become a Queen, had been as close to their father as Mary was to him. Part of him even wished to see Mary make an English marriage, just so they would never have to part. Thankfully, any marriage that Parliament could make for her was years away now… He thought suddenly of Princess Charlotte. Would his future bride loathe parting with her mother and father and with France and resent him for it?

Lady Mary Talbot had apparently also left his sister's household—to be married. She had wed the Earl of Northumberland's son, also named Harry.

"Now I have a new maid-of-honor, she's not even much older than you…Lady Jane. And Harry, she can't even read, or speak French or Latin…she can barely sign her name! So I told Lady Salisbury she has to take lessons with me." She beamed, pleased to have accomplished her first act of charity. Mary's enthusiasm and sweetness touched the young Prince. He thought maybe she deserved to be their father's heir than he did—the people would adore her.

They already did.

His sister may have been born in the depths of winter, and her birth may have caused the nation—and their father—to mourn rather than rejoice, but here and now, she was a child of springtime and of England. Heedless of her position or her expensive taffeta, Mary ran to the rosebushes and buried her face in the fragrant blossoms. She challenged him to a game of catch-me-if-you-can, in which her boundless energy effortlessly prevailed. Watching her, Harry shed his questions and concerns and he, too, became a ten-year-old boy instead of the Prince of Wales.

The two children fell dizzily upon the grass as evening began to fall, exhausted and exhilarated. They stared up at the darkening sky when Mary seized his hand, pointing up at the sliver of a waning moon.

"Do you think—do you think that Mama sees us from Heaven?" she whispered, wide-eyed in her wonder.

Tears glistened in Harry's eyes. "Mama is always watching over us, Mary," he replied. "Especially you. You're her baby girl." Then he made a silent prayer to the mother he scarcely remembered that would always look after Mary. No matter what other mistakes he might make in his life, he promised his mother and himself that he would do right by his little sister.

**Whitehall**

The tiny cap Anne had been embroidering fell out of her hands as she entered her sister's chambers. Mary stood facing the window, staring out of it; Will Carey was of course absent. But a tall figure had his hand clamped around Mary's shoulder—their father. Boleyn glanced over his shoulder and he smiled at his younger daughter slyly. "Ah, my little Nan. How high you have reached already, and after such a short time at Court. Your sister was just telling me…" He trailed away. Anne's fingers closed limply around the linen garment.

"Mary?" How could her sister give away her secret? Mary, whose virtue had been sold for Boleyn's advancement! His ambition disgusted her. Even Mary disgusted her at that moment. Then she turned on her father, her blue eyes suddenly steely. "So I am your little Nan again, Father? You can save your flattery. I have told His Majesty that I will not be his mistress."

Boleyn was curiously unmoved. "And how did His Majesty take such a declaration, my dear?" His voice was as smooth as silk. When she remained silent, he chuckled and took one tentative step forward. He reached out and brushed her cheek with a cool hand. Anne flinched away from him like a frightened doe. Once upon a time, she'd been his darling. His baby. Now, what was she besides a pawn in his game? Perhaps marrying Henry on her own terms would protect her from being sold to him on her father's. Henry Tudor was a man who knew what he wanted, after all, and he wanted Anne to be his wife.

One way or another, she feared. Her only hope was that Mary had not told him everything.

"I suspect that the King wants more from you than an affair, Anne." Boleyn's words dripped with poison. Her heart all but froze. He knew! "After all, he has been a lonely man for a terribly long time. I empathize with His Majesty's plight. When I lost your mother—"

Something wild possessed Anne. She wondered how Mary could sit so docilely by and listen to this! Now that she was married—and pregnant—she was untouchable, but surely Mary did not want to see their father's ambition rip their family apart at the seams! Had she not told Anne that she hoped to see at least one of them happy and in love?

"Don't drag Mother into this!" she hissed at him viciously. "You are only relieved she is not here to see what you are doing to her daughters for your own benefit!"

Her father seized her arm. "Be reasonable, Anne! You cannot do better than the King, who loves you. He will make you the happiest, most beloved woman in Christendom! You will have the power reward your friends and your family, and have power over your enemies! You will be _Queen!_" His interpretation of queenship disgusted Anne. It seemed completely immoral. If all monarchs functioned thus—and surely, too many of them already did—then the whole practice of monarchy as a form of government would be doomed. Corruption would rot from the inside.

With a fierce effort, Anne twisted away. "You did not raise me to be so inconsiderate of others, Father! Ambitious, perhaps, but not cruel! Not like you." No matter what he said—to the King or to her—Anne refused to marry Henry on anyone's terms but her own. She wouldn't risk hurting him, or put herself in danger by wedding him on false pretenses. Boleyn's eyes remained hard as she stumbled away. He had no sympathy for her crisis of conscience.

There was little point in arguing with a deaf man, so Anne turned on her heel and fled the room. Where she would go, she had no idea—certainly not to Henry. But if Boleyn wanted to use her thus, and if her own sister would whisper Anne's secrets into his ear, she would prefer being anyone and anything other than a Boleyn.

Suddenly the idea struck her. Tom! They'd barely seen one another since she'd returned from France, but Anne was certain that rescuing a damsel in distress would be a very poetic cause for which he would eagerly fight. Tom could help make her untouchable. He could shield her from her father's scheming and from the King's advances. At that moment, in her eagerness, she disregarded Henry's own happiness. She all but ran into her modest chambers and laid the wooden bolt over the door. Tossing aside her future niece or nephew's half-finished cap, Anne sat down at the little desk where quill, ink and paper already lay ready for her. But now her composition was not to George.

_Dearest Tom,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well. I have missed your good company ever since I sailed for the glorious French Court. You always wrote such pretty words for me and flattered me overmuch. Will you consent to visit Hever? I intend to return shortly, since I have been staying at Whitehall in the company of my sister, where I fear I have unwillingly attracted the attention of a certain gentleman. Please keep this letter to yourself—especially keep it from my brother George, since I intend for my visit to come as a surprise to him._

_Affectionately,_

_Anne Boleyn_

Anne folded it into a small square once she was sure the ink was dried. She scribbled his name on the front and then tore a small embroidered ribbon from her gown with which to bind it. Tom would no doubt see it as a lady's favor to her champion. And though Tom was hardly a knight, she had no doubt whatsoever that he would indeed become her champion—Lancelot to Henry's Arthur.

And Anne, despite her best efforts to avoid the role, found that she was cast as Guinevere.

**4 June**

Thomas Boleyn found Anne's impudence insufferable, but he had reluctantly taken followed the advice of his older daughter and abandoned his attempts to persuade her—or, finding himself unable to do so, enforcing his will as a father had the right to do. Surely common sense would sway her. Anne was, after all, Boleyn's greatest joy. It was rare that a father found himself blessed with a daughter both clever and beautiful, and charming enough to woo the King of England himself! Besides, once her temper cooled, she would realize that he was not asking that she throw away her virtue. And since the King wished to marry her, she could not even lay the accusation on him! He failed to see what she could possibly complain about.

He had been more than generous and had given her two days to recover from her injured pride. His patience had already worn thin. Enough was enough. Anne would face reality today, and then he would go and speak with the King. She could be Queen within the month!

"Anne, sweetheart?" Boleyn knocked gently on her door. When he slid it open, the outer chamber revealed nothing. Perhaps she was still moping in bed. He hoped not. The girl had never been of a kind with Mary. She had to pull herself together, and act as mature and intelligent as he knew she was. The maid assigned to serve his daughter appeared out of thin air. She curtsied to him.

"Is Lady Anne still abed?" he asked sharply. If she was unwilling to wake her mistress, _he_ certainly was not.

What little color had been in the poor girl's cheeks vanished at once. She wrung her hands and looked everywhere except at him. "N-n-no, m-my lord," she stammered timidly. A lock of curly yellow hair fell into her eyes. She pushed it back, and he saw that her fingers quivered. His blue eyes narrowed. Was he really so intimidating? It was possible that Anne had instructed her not to admit her father, and that she was now second-guessing her willingness to follow the orders.

More information was clearly not forthcoming. "Well, then, where is she?" Boleyn demanded at once. In his frustration he didn't care whether or not he frightened her.

Anne's maid could only shake her head for a few moments. She finally came up with words, though they seemed to be forced out of her. "I-I d-don't know!" she wailed. "Please, my lord, s-she didn't s-say, I only know t-that she had me pack a f-few of h-her things, and that S-sir Carey went w-w-with her!"

Blood rushed into Boleyn's face. A vein pulsed visibly in his neck. It was all that he could do to keep his anger in check long enough to escape the presence of the terrified girl, who was on the verge of tears already. That ungrateful little wench! His fists were clenched so tightly that he might have torn through his skin if he hadn't taken several deep breaths. No matter. Where else did Anne have to go but Hever? It was too late to intercept her, but he could at least send word to George to keep her there until he could collect her and bring her back to Court—even if he had to bind her arms and gag her to do so. Anne would not squander this glorious chance. She had always been obedient in the past, and he had more need than ever of her obedience now. And though she was certainly the child he loved best, the one in whom he saw the most of himself, Boleyn was not a man to be crossed. He would beat her rebelliousness from her, should it come to that. She would yield to the will of her father and that of her King. Their will was that she become Henry's wife and the anointed Queen of England.

Whether she wanted to or not.


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: **Hope everyone likes the update—I was really torn which way to go, but it worked out in the end.

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews and support, especially to ReganX for her insightful comments!

* * *

**Hever****Castle  
5 June**

Sir Thomas Wyatt's dreams were coming true. Rather, his dream. His dream had a name. Since they were children, Tom had been head-over-heels in love with his friend George's little sister. She was the other half of his soul—even then, attractive and witty and poetic. As they'd gotten older, he and Anne had flirted and teased one another. He wrote her silly, romantic verses, which she committed to memory before tossing them into the fire lest her brother find them and tease her, or father find them and punish her. Tom had been on the verge of taking the obvious next step, asking her to make him whole, when her damnable father had intervened again and sent her away to France.

_The sun beat down on the thick green lawn of Hever. Tom and Anne sat together in the shade of an old tree. Her head was turned away from him, but he leaned over her. "'And will you leave me thus? And have no more pity of he that loves thee?'" he murmured softly. She was not usually so quiet. It unnerved him. Was it not bad enough that she was leaving him so suddenly, on the very day he'd meant to ask her so momentous a question?_

_Anne nearly hit him in the face in her haste to rise. "You don't understand, Tom. I cannot disobey Father. He has higher ambitions for me than a knighted poet!" Anne glared down at him in frustration, her beautiful eyes flashing._

_Didn't _she_ understand? Tom was watching his whole future dissolve before his eyes. Lady Anne Wyatt disappeared, and with her…everything. The brood of children, dark-haired and blue-eyed, vanished with the single command of Boleyn, cruel and ambitious. The toddler running into his embrace, the infant in Anne's arms, his wife's adoring smile…gone. Hadn't she dreamed of any of those things? Was it possible she felt _nothing _for him? And if she had, why wasn't she willing to fight for that future? If they were betrothed, he could protect her! George would protect her!_

_Tom struggled to his feet and grabbed her wrist. He pulled her towards him. He whispered, "What do you want for yourself? I don't care about your father's ambitions, __Nan__, I only care about you! I love you! Don't you love _me_?" That had been the definitive question._

_Those eyes welled up with tears and she pulled away from him. "Oh, Tom. Nothing is as simple as you think it is. I'd love to be your wife, you know it, but…I've heard such things about King Francis' court from my sister. There is more to the world than Hever and poems and our summertime passions, you know that as well as I."_

_The last thing he wanted was to see her cry. "__Nan__, I'm sorry. I want you to be happy."_

_He gathered her up in his arms. Anne laid her pretty, dark head on his shoulder. They stayed like that for along time—half an hour, maybe. Then Tom placed a tender kiss on her forehead. "Write to me. Confide in me, Anne, when you are in need of a friend from home." He would think of her every day, every moment! He would write to her, even if her letters never came. Anne must know that she was loved._

_"Tom—" Anne's voice faltered, then failed. He gave her a weak smile in parting. All he could do was pray that God had mercy enough for his pitiful love, and that he was granted a second chance._

The Lord had heard his prayers after all. Tom rode to Hever as soon as he'd received Anne's hastily-written note. He was excited and worried, for she had mentioned that some gentleman had pursued her at Court against her will. Always the poet, he decided his mission was to shield her from these attentions and, he hoped, to replace them with his own. His feelings for Anne had scarce changed since that last summer day they had spent together. Just as he swung to the ground from his saddle, she appeared outside. His heart stopped. The world stopped. All he could see was her bright smile and her sky-blue French silk gown. Then she was running towards him, crying his name. He'd forgotten how it could sound coming from her. _Tom! Tom!_

He caught her and spun her around, breathless. Anne touched his cheek and began to laugh. It bubbled out of her, like the gushing waters of a forest spring. Their eyes, equally blue and bright and full of joy, met. "Oh, Anne," Tom whispered. "I have missed you so."

Anne's soft lips met his before he even knew what was happening. His eyes fluttered closed. He pulled her closer, crushed her gently against his chest. Tangled his hands in her silky black hair. She smelled of flowers and tasted like heaven. No matter what happened now, Tom swore he would not let her slip away again. Her lover at Court could come seek her here, but he would have to overpower Tom Wyatt if he hoped to lay claim to the Lady Anne. _Boleyn be damned!_ he thought valiantly. The old schemer would think Wyatt was not good enough for his daughter. He didn't care, and this time, he would make sure Anne fought alongside him. For their love. For their future.

After an eternity, Anne managed to put enough distance between them to speak. "Have you thought of me often since I've been away, Tom?" she asked coyly.

"Every day!" he assured her eagerly. He was rewarded with a somewhat more chaste kiss on the cheek and another dazzling smile. George had wandered out by now, and was grinning at them. Anne was clearly aware of her brother's presence. She may have been flirtatious and shameless about kissing him beforehand—but Tom realized that George, as an obedient son, could not be expected to keep everything to himself.

Tom took a step backwards and bowed just slightly to George. He was expecting at least a chuckle for his efforts, and probably one of George's good-natured, rib-cracking one-armed hugs. None came. In fact, the greeting he received from his best friend was cool at best. "Welcome to back Hever, Tom. I hear you've come by my sister's invitation?" His eyes briefly darted towards Anne. She raised her chin slightly in defiance of his disapproving tone. No wonder she'd asked him to keep her letter a secret.

"Yes." Suddenly he was unsure whether all of this was a good idea. He wouldn't let Anne go—but maybe their reunion here and now was a bad idea. There was something he hadn't been told. Just who was this lover she had at Court?

Was he playing the fool—the scapegoat? Tom tried to meet Anne's eyes, but she turned her head.

George's arm went around his shoulders. "I think we need to talk, Tom," he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at his sister, who frowned at him. "What did Anne tell you?"

He said nothing for a while as they began to walk slowly away from the castle. The lightness that had lingered in Tom's heart for days now began to fade. His love for Anne felt tarnished, dirty—everything was not as it seemed. It turned his stomach sour. "She…she wrote that she wanted to escape an unwelcome courtship at Whitehall," he stammered. "Has she played me false, George? I love your sister, you know that. But I will not be used by anyone, not even her." _Lord, you have granted me this one blessing. Please._

The other man pursed his lips. "Anne has caught the King's eye, Tom. Our father is intent that she entertain his advances, and she has come here to escape both of them. This is a dangerous game she is playing." He shook his head.

The King! Tom's heart pounded loudly in his ears. Anne wanted him to pursue her, marry her, simply so she could avoid a relationship with the King of England. His vision for the future faded again. This time, he feared, it was gone for good. If she really loved him, he would have been happy to keep the King away from her. Tom Wyatt would have let his life be forfeit for her sake, if only she hadn't come to him as a last resort. "The King," he repeated faintly. "What will become of it, George? Will your father…" The question went unspoken and his brows drew together in concern. Tom had heard tell of Boleyn's willingness to trade Mary's virtue for fortune in France. He didn't want the same thing to happen to Anne. Perhaps she hadn't used him after all. Perhaps she was just afraid, and in her hour of direst need, she'd finally followed her heart. Tom seized upon that hope and clung to it as tightly as a rope in the storm-tossed sea.

George only shrugged. "I don't know, Tom, our father's ambition is ruthless. He hasn't any morals when it comes to getting ahead at Court. You know, of course, that our mother was a Howard…Father's always felt as though Uncle Norfolk looks down on him as unworthy of siring half-Howard children." It was clear which half of his parentage George was more of.

The idea of defending Anne against a foe surged in Tom's soul anew. Not only against the King but also against her own father. He was armed, again, with the idea that his lady love required his service. "I will do all I can to look after your sister, George," he promised. It never crossed his mind that George out to be the one looking after her. He was too proud of his own part. How quickly the tide of a poet's emotions turned! He had lost faith in Anne one moment, only to have it restored instantly the next.

"Be careful, Tom. Kings are not used to being denied their desires."

Tom overlooked his friend's concerned expression and brushed aside his warning. If the King wanted Anne, he would have fight for her! He was confident enough of his charms to believe that no man could ever love Anne as deeply as he did. King Henry could never know her, down to the depths of her soul, like Tom did. No man save Tom had been fashioned to complete her and be completed by her. This confidence was a salve to the wound his pride had taken, wrongful though it was to think Anne was only toying with him.

He knew only that, as he ducked beneath George's arm, Anne stood by the gate. She was a summer fairy queen, lingering amongst Hever's bright and sweet-smelling flowers. Standing waiting for him, with a milk-white hand outstretched. When he reached her, he'd already composed a few lines, and took her hand within his own, smiling. "'_Noli me tangere; for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.'_"

She smiled ruefully. "I am not Caesar's, nor any man's, Tom Wyatt. Not yet." Her voice was heavy with a promise that all but brought tears to Tom's eyes.

"I am more fortunate than even Caesar, my love, for I know how to tame you," he replied. Pretty verses and fierce passion were the keys to Anne's heart. He had been so close to unlocking it before she had been exiled to the French Court. Now, he planned to waste no time…for time was not on their side. Though Tom could hardly elope with her, he was intent on securing her hand before Boleyn could reach Hever and discover their tryst. Surely the old man couldn't object. Tom was no pauper. He would give Anne a good life, even if he could not bestow titles or land upon Boleyn. He was certainly wealthier than the man Mary Boleyn was said to have married.

Anne said nothing, only bestowed upon him her most enigmatic smile. She neither agreed with nor contradicted his claim. But in her own heart, she knew that if Tom could tame her, Henry could have conquered her. And until she was wedded and bedded by Tom Wyatt, he still might.

**Richmond  
****6 June **

"Harry!"

The King's daughter had escaped Lady Salisbury, too wear y to keep up with her, in her pursuit of the Prince of Wales. She came upon the open door to his small audience chamber and let herself in. It felt nice to be unannounced and informal for once. "Harry," she cried breathlessly. Her brother was poring over a book—probably boring, she thought, and filled with Latin or philosophy or worse yet, history. The only good kind of history came in songs and stories—verbal, not written. Then again, Mary was five years old and full of life, not yet willing to devote an hour or two to books.

He glanced up, wearing an expression of deep concentration. His tutors were lucky that he and Mary did not regularly live under the same roof, or else Harry would never finish any of his work! Under normal circumstances, he was an enthusiastic scholar, but with his sister around, he became less the heir to the throne and more a normal ten-year-old boy.

"Hello little sister," he hailed her cheerfully. "I can't play just now. All this to read about the Romans and Greeks."

Mary folded her small arms across her chest. She looked incredibly like their Aunt Margaret when she wanted to be stubborn, Harry thought with a grin. "I wasn't going to ask to play with you. It's Lady Jane, she needs your help, because she says I'm too little and she can't—"

At the same moment, a pale girl dressed in Mary's green-and-white livery stumbled through the doorway. "My lady Princess!" she gasped. "You aren't to run away like that!" Harry eyed her curiously. She was little older than him, perhaps twelve or thirteen, but even he could tell that she had a natural elegance and brightness which leant her maturity beyond her years. Her golden hair was caught up in a thick plait, which swung slightly as she skidded to a stop. When she noticed him, her eyes—cornflower blue—widened. "Your Highness. Forgive me." She sank into a petrified curtsy. Clearly, she was confident enough in scolding a little girl, Princess or no, but the future King of England was another matter entirely.

Honestly, Harry wished that people would not waste their breath on these formalities herein the country. Wouldn't he have enough of that in the future? "You don't have anything to be forgiven, my lady," he assured her warmly. She lifted her chin slightly so she could have a peek at him, and then averted her eyes just as quickly. "Oh, am I that ferocious?" Harry glanced at his sister and laughed.

Mary covered her mouth to stifle her own giggles before she announced, "Harry, this is Lady Jane."

He remembered then—this must be the new maid of honor appointed in place of the two who had left Mary's household. The girl who couldn't read or write. Maybe that had something to do with this. Once Lady Jane had straightened, he stood up cocked a brow at her. "My sister says you need my help. What for?"

The poor girl gaped at him for a few seconds longer. It seemed to amaze her that the Prince of Wales, a grandson of the infamous warrior Queen Isabella, could be so…ordinary. There was nothing about him, except maybe the fact that he didn't torment his little sister, to suggest that he was going to be King someday. "Her Highness is trying to teach me h-how to…how to read." Though she was aware that plenty of peasants didn't have this ability, Jane hung her head in shame. As a nobleman's daughter, even a mere knight's, she ought to have learned long ago. Back at home with her sisters, Jane had no need of reading or writing. Now, as a servant to the Princess Mary, she was made to feel backwards and ignorant because she lacked that knowledge. "And…well, God bless the Princess for trying, but I can't seem to understand it…" Not from a five-year-old, anyway.

"So I said you could help her, Harry! You can do anything." Mary piped up. Harry could tell she meant every word.

There wouldn't be any harm in attempting to train the girl in her basic letters. Since he could do so little else for his subjects at the tender age of ten, Harry supposed that helping teach one of them to read and write was satisfactory. "Alright," he consented. "Mary, why don't you fetch Lady Jane's things for her? We'll work as a team." The two of them shared an affectionate smile, and Mary dutifully skipped out of the room to begin the lesson.

Once Mary was out of earshot, Jane spoke up. "You really care for her, don't you…Your Highness?" She added this hastily, for fear she might forget to whom she spoke.

"I love her more than anyone. Mama gave her life so Mary could have a life of her own. And even though I miss my mother…I can't imagine a world without Mary." Harry's jaw tightened momentarily. Just thinking about his life without his baby sister was unbearable. "You sound…surprised. Do you have a brother, Lady Jane?"

Her pretty face darkened a little. "Two—Neddy and Tom—and they both hate me!" she confessed.

Harry snorted in disbelief. "Hate you! I don't think anyone could hate you, Lady Jane. You're so…" Mary reappeared, however, so he didn't have the opportunity to finish his thought. She laid a few pieces of spare parchment on Harry's desk, beside his book, as well as a small tablet meant for her own use. Motioning that Jane should take the chair, he suggested, "Why don't you try your name?" Starting with one's own name struck him as practical enough. She might even have already achieved that much with Mary as her tutor.

Jane took up Harry's own quill and managed, slowly and clumsily, to form the childish letters "J-A-N-E" but she stumbled when she came to her surname, and looked up at him helplessly. Harry leaned over her. "What's your family name?"

"Seymour, Your Highness."

Her face was close to his, close enough that he could see the little cobalt flecks in her eyes. He gave her a reassuring smile. "Please, call me Harry." His hand closed gently around hers and he guided her into the beginnings of an "S". Eventually a sloppy rendering of "SEYMOUR" was scrawled beside her name. "Do you see the letters, Lady Jane? Look, it starts with 'S'…" One day it might become a real signature, he mused.

"Jane." Harry straightened and looked down at her curiously. She was finally secure enough to smile at him. "Jane," she repeated softly. "Just Jane."

A grin lit up Harry's face. "Just Jane, then," he agreed. He was beginning to suspect that he'd lied to Princess Charlotte about the loveliest girl he'd ever seen—for was she not sitting before him, with a sweet smile especially for him? No princess. Just a simple English girl named Jane Seymour

**Lisbon****, ****Portugal**

Things happened in a flurry of activity almost as soon as the English ship had docked in Portugal. Princess Margaret had no more time to dally with Charles Brandon, or even to entertain the notion that he would make a good partner in bed before she was sold to her new so-called husband. Once the English party set their feet on solid ground—Margaret found it somewhat difficult to walk after so many days stumbling on the unsteady decks of their ship—they were informed by a grim-faced messenger that His Majesty had taken ill several days before. Though he had already been bled several times, the pestilence had yet to leave his body. They were asked to pray for his soul, though of course there was no talk of his possible death.

Margaret and her ladies were allowed gracious use of the Queen's chambers. They were, she had to admit, sumptuous and altogether different than those her mother and Katherine had occupied in England. Still, she hoped never to occupy them as Queen of Portugal. Her conscience warned her against wishing for the King's death, and yet…

"Your Highness."

All her ladies stood immediately and fell into curtsies, murmuring "Your Grace" in unison. Charles Brandon took several steps into the chamber, where the women had sat for days embroidering and reading and playing cards—much as they had done on the ship—and, sometimes, praying for Margaret's would-be husband as had been requested of them. Margaret kept her eyes glued to the book in her lap. "Your Grace," she replied softly.

"Your Highness, the King's soul has been called up to the Lord," he muttered. "His son asks that you attend his funeral before we…depart."

Depart! The pang of pity Margaret had felt for the old man's suffering evaporated, replaced with overwhelming joy. Her breath came unevenly. So this was the end of the alliance with Portugal, and the end of her misery! Her brother would be furious that the King had died before his sister ever had the chance to lay eyes on him, or him on her, but she paid no mind at all to Henry's feelings on the matter. And this time, she would choose her own husband—though she had not even really been married the first time. She rose from her chair and crossed the room until she stood mere inches away from Brandon.

In a whisper, she said, "Thank you for this glorious news, Your Grace." And for the first time, Brandon was treated to a genuine smile from her. He was clearly amazed, and grinned back. "What a shame," she murmured, "that I shall never have my wedding night."

Her blue eyes danced with amusement and she threw back her head in laughter. "Ladies, we must pay our respects to my poor lord! Please find something suitable for us to wear to His Majesty's funeral." Soon, she would be out of Portugal and—though she would have to make that dreadful voyage back to England—return home. The idea made the Queen's chambers all the more beautiful and exotic. Brandon bowed to her, and she gladly curtsied in return. Henry's best laid plans had been foiled—and she hadn't even had to lift a finger. Margaret said one brief prayer for the soul of the dead King, then a barrage of thanks to God for his mercy. Now, she could only hope that her brother would be as accommodating to her wishes as the Lord.

**Hever  
7 June**

Anne could scarcely believe everything that had happened in the two days since Tom had arrived at Hever. She had understood from the beginning that her father would follow her home, that his anger would be great—for he already knew what could have been if she had stayed at Court. But she had never expected him to come thus, violent and wrathful. And worse still, the revelation that it had been not Mary but her own stupidity which had betrayed her. The fault was hers, for not having kept the King's letter with her at all costs…and George's, for his blind obedience. Her heart ached at the thought that he dearly-loved brother had something to do with this. She realized how blind she'd been. George may have adored her, but his loyalty was to their father.

She and Tom walked in the garden that morning, Anne with her dark head resting lightly on his shoulder. He recited his newest verses and plucked a sprig of lavender and tucked it in her hair. In return, she gave him her most sincere smiles and her gayest laughter. They would be happy together: she, saved from King Henry's too-intense love and he, blissfully in love with her. She would gladly abide their marriage with the sisterly affection she'd always felt for him.

It was in this idyll that Anne heard Thomas Boleyn's voice. Her father played the Devil and she, the unsuspecting Eve. Only when he stormed towards them did she realize the truth: Boleyn had not come to negotiate or to scold. He had come to have his way. The ember of fear, first conjured up by her daring scheme, burst into a hot and consuming flame—not only for herself, but for Tom. He couldn't protect her. He would be lucky to escape in one piece. Yet stupidly, he'd tried to shield her from the wrathful Boleyn.

Her father shoved him roughly out of the way. His fingers closed around her wrist. Anne knew that this time he would not let go so easily. He saw this as a betrayal, too—betrayed by his favorite child, his ambitions nearly undermined by a lowly poet! Though she understood his rage, she still hated him for it. She could not find even a scrap of her long-ago memory of him to grasp now. Her indulgent father was gone forever, replaced by this monster.

Tom could do nothing. George _would_ do nothing. The only man who might help her now was far away in London…the very man whose love she'd turned from in cowardice. Rather than go willingly to the man who might have complimented her perfectly, she would now be thrust upon him as a conquest…her father's conquest. She felt suddenly ill for a dozen reasons.

"Wretched girl!" Boleyn hissed. "You think yourself above your father! Above your _King!_ You are unworthy of the King!"

Anne felt the blow of his meaty palm before she even saw it rise. Her blood pounded fiercely in her ears. Behind Boleyn, she realized that George stood dumbfounded. His image was blurred by her tears. This brother was her Judas. _Mother, Mother,_ she thought desperately then, _you have borne Mary and I into a viper's nest!_ Boleyn was threatening her now, but none of his words could sting her as badly as his hand had. The hands that had surely cradled her as a baby, that had hoisted her up as a small girl, that had held her and comforted her when her mother had died! Would it have been better to be born a simpering, stupid girl? If their fathers struck them, they would at least not be able to dwell on the irony of it.

"Come on, Anne." George pressed gently against the small of her back. He tried to lead her away, now that Boleyn had turned firmly on Tom Wyatt. He was berating the young man as badly, worse, than he had her. But his insults and empty threats could never wound Tom as deeply as they had wounded her. "He doesn't mean it. He only wants the best for you. And he has always thought…"

She twisted away from his guiding hand once they were inside. "None of your excuses will redeem him in my eyes, George. Why did you show him my letter?"

None of his words could excuse him, so she turned away and retreated to her bedchamber. The air here was stifling—her father's domain. Anne was as much his prisoner here as his daughter. Even when she flung herself onto the bed, though, she could not bring herself to sob as she had at Hatfield. Had the Mother of God wept to find that her fate was sealed? Why, then, should she? And if there was any bright side at all to this predicament, it was that being the King's wife would be preferable to staying here, lorded over by Thomas Boleyn.

Boleyn came in from the garden, ranting to George about the injustice of it all. What had he done wrong, to make Anne so disobedient? Then he demanded, "Where is she? The nerve of that girl, courting Thomas Wyatt when the King wants her for himself!"

Finally dear George showed some courage. "Sleeping. If you must punish her, Father, do it later."

Anne decided to heed her brother's words in case Boleyn came looking for her. She laid her head against the pillow and willed her eyes closed. Though the day was still bright and warm and young, she was emotionally exhausted—angry and hurt beyond what words could convey to these two men or even to God. Sleep claimed her quickly and delivered her into the keeping of troubled dreams.

When she woke in the late afternoon, she despaired despairing to find that she couldn't forget for even a moment everything that had happened. As soon as she opened the door, her father's shadow loomed over her. "Eat something," he growled. "There is bread and wine in the kitchen." She was glad for the excuse to escape him. Cook was kind to her, at least, and the hard bread soothed her hunger even if it sat uneasily in her stomach. With every fiber of her bring, Anne wanted to return to Hatfield and to the service of little Princess Mary. There she'd been welcomed and loved—unconditionally—by the King's child. There lay peace and music and laughter, the innocence of childhood.

Instead she would be returned unwillingly to Whitehall. The King would take up his hasty courtship under the sharp eyes of Boleyn. Anne would relent and marry him, become Queen. Her father would be satiated. She gazed this far into her future blandly. Then, after the nuptials, Anne would bear a few squalling half-royal infants, marriage pawns of no real significance in the world, second always to sweet Mary and the Prince of Wales. That suited her, for she was sure that any babe would please her. But what of Boleyn? What if he would not be satisfied until he was the grandfather of the future King of England? The very idea chilled her. She may not have been able to change this impending marriage now that it was in her father's hands, but she would not allow him to lay a finger on the royal children—Katherine's or her own.

He had already done enough harm to his own.

**8 June**

Had he done something to make her go? Henry's mind was consumed with the possibility. Almost as soon as Thomas Boleyn had come to Whitehall, he'd gone again, saying that his daughter had mysteriously returned to Hever Castle without notice. It never occurred to him to connect Boleyn's arrival with his daughter's departure. He was simply eager to have the man there so that they could make arrangements if—when—Anne agreed to marry him.

Of course, it was no small thing to go from being a simple knight's daughter to the Queen Consort. He understood why she might be reluctant to take on such a responsibility. But he was as blinded by love now as he had ever been with Katherine. He'd waited for so long to marry his brother's beautiful, impoverished widow. At least then both of them had been young, full of life but capable of being patient. Now Henry felt the weight of his age threatening to suffocate him. Sooner or later he would no longer be a great athlete, nor strong and dark-haired, easily able to hold a lance or to swing his child up into his arms. He could not afford to wait so long for Anne. He loved her, and no obstacles stood in his way save for her own reluctance.

It still had not occurred to him that she may genuinely wish to marry elsewhere. He couldn't fathom that perhaps she loved another. So after days of waiting to hear from her or Boleyn, Henry decided to be rash and ride out for Hever alone. Wolsey ran the kingdom anyway, so there was little reason to let any but a few friends know where he would be.

Boleyn's holdings were minor but delightfully landscaped. Even twenty yards from the castle, he could smell the late-spring and early-summer flowers of their garden. And the house itself was quaint. Charming. A great deal smaller than Whitehall! Smaller even than Hatfield. Yet he knew Anne had served at King Francis' Court. And he grudgingly acknowledged that French palaces surpassed his in grandeur and size.

Henry had come unannounced and unadorned—appropriate for a place like Hever—to win Anne back. Part of him was also curious about her life here. Everyone put on a mask in front of the King. He could hardly help but wonder.

A servant hurried to his side as he rode up, a simple stable hand unaware that he served the King of England. "I'll take good care of 'er, sir," he promised, patting Henry's sweaty mare, and then added nervously, "Should I fetch the master?" All the Boleyns' servants knew that Mistress Anne was in serious trouble. They whispered about what the master had done to her, and Anne's chambermaid hinted that she'd cried herself to sleep. Of course, he didn't work in the house, so the boy didn't know all the details.

"No." Henry barely even acknowledged the boy's shallow bow before he strode towards the house. _Anne. _Her name burned in his blood. She was so close. He wished he'd thought to bring something for her—something simple, perhaps. Flowers. A little necklace. But he had brought nothing, only himself and his love. The door stood ajar and he stepped inside. Though the stable boy had appeared immediately, the entry hall appeared to be completely deserted. No one, servant or otherwise, hurried up to greet him. Dared he hope that she had already left for Whitehall? That she had changed her mind?

It was in that eerie silence that Henry heard Anne speak. "Papa, please. Don't the things I want for myself matter to you?"

He could not keep himself from stepping towards the closed door, behind which her voice rang out, thick with emotion. He longed to go and comfort her.

"Have you no ambition?" Boleyn replied slowly, a cold, brittle sound. "Have you no_ sense_, girl? I will tie you to my horse and drag you back to London if I must, but you will obey my wishes! Your sister never questioned my decisions. She understood that I made them in her best interests!"

_I will tie you to my horse…_ Henry's blood ran cold. It was the sort of thing no daughter ought to hear. Even his father would not have stooped to making such a threat, no matter how rebelliously Margaret behaved. The ice which dripped from Boleyn's words made him thoroughly believe that he would do something of the sort if Anne would still not bend to his will. It paralyzed him with disgust and fear—disgust for Boleyn, fear for Anne. It was never his intention to put her in such a position. What if the man disowned her, and because of Henry's lust? Was it not his place to interfere…and by the same token, was it not his place to leave, now, and abandon any courtship he may have pursued otherwise?

Anne protested immediately. Her outrage, for her sister's sake, touched his heart. "Her best interests! Father, you all but sold her to the King of France and were more than willing to do the same when King Henry looked twice at her! And now, you pawn her off again, only this time to a poor man, simply because he was willing to take her!"

"Only King Henry did not look twice at her, but at you!" Boleyn growled. "A fact an obedient, grateful daughter might have told me!"

His ear was practically pressed against the door by now, so he heard all too clearly the collision and the telling silence afterwards that thrust him back to the day Margaret had pleaded with him not to send her to Portugal. He, too, had been blinded by rage—he, too, had demanded that a woman in his family enter into a union that would benefit that family. And now his rage boiled over again. It was directed not only at his own unforgivable behavior, but at Boleyn. His would-be father-in-law was willing to sacrifice his daughter's love and trust simply for that privilege!

Acting blindly, Henry threw open the door. There was such force behind his shove that it slammed loudly against the paneled walls. The sound echoed slightly. Father and daughter—Anne sitting on her bed, one delicate hand covering the red mark her father had just left on her lovely face; Boleyn's mouth hanging open in horror—stood frozen. Even Henry could find nothing to say.

Boleyn attempted to stammer an explanation. "Your Majesty, this is…a great honor you pay us…"

His daughter kept silent. Unshed tears glistened in her blue eyes. Their expression reminded Henry of a doe he and his brother Arthur had cornered once: a mixture of surprise and panic and dignity. He turned his back on Boleyn without deigning to speak, either—though really Henry doubted whether he could trust his tongue when he was practically trembling in anger. Anne was as proud and beautiful as his sister, yet both had been reduced to ghosts when turned upon by the men they loved. _Oh Lord,_ he prayed swiftly, _I will make amends for what I have done to Margaret. I ask only that You give me strength to help Anne now! _What was chivalry if not this overwhelming desire to protect she who was so dear to him? He would do so now, even if he must endure seeing Anne wed another. She already had her father's demands to weigh on her mind.

"Come with me," the King entreated quietly, extending his hand. Only now he was not the King. He would not command her. He would simply offer her an escape. A chance to rejoin her sister and avoid her treacherous father.

Anne hesitated momentarily. Her eyes flickered towards Boleyn, who still stood horror-struck by Henry's entrance. Then she lowered the hand shielding her throbbing cheek and reached out to Henry, laying her slender fingers in his outstretched palm. Henry closed his own around them at once, defensively. He offered Boleyn a scornful look in farewell and led her eagerly away, outside the castle, towards the stables. The servant boy who had stabled and unsaddled his horse blinked rapidly in confusion. "Sir…m'lady?" he asked in a small voice.

Unaware even now that he was the King of England, Henry marveled! He would have been delighted, except that his first concern now was Anne. She stood still and silent while the horse was quickly made ready again, all but molded from bronze or carved from marble, he thought. Why did she say nothing? _Do_ nothing? Weren't women supposed to cry or shout or show some emotion when this sort of thing happened? Her mask unsettled him, for he could neither pry it off nor was he sure he wanted to. While he had never actually heard Anne say she did not want to marry him…not heard her declare her love for another…the idea of losing her pained him. Had he not already lost Katherine? To lose Anne's heart before he'd even had the joy of winning it…

Though not clad for riding, Anne climbed capably into the saddle. Henry swung up behind her, his arms encircling her little waist as he took the reins. Yet even as they rode away, over the shaded emerald lawn, she never said a word, nor looked back even once. He feared Boleyn's blow had addled her somehow.

Once they had come to wilder, more unkempt grasses and a rougher road, however, she relaxed slightly. She leaned against him—leaned her rounded shoulders back into his chest just enough to send an elated chill up Henry's spine. Gently, he tightened one arm around her midsection protectively. "Thank you," she said simply. "My father was well within his rights."

Rights! Henry scoffed. "I have come between you. I am the cause of this quarrel…I am the cause of your pain." His voice caught. If not for him—

"I beg you, Your Majesty, do not blame yourself! I told you before that if you pursued me, I must love you for better or worse. And you have, but now I see that you've pursued me as yourself." Anne's musical laughter fell as sweetly on Henry's ears as an angel's song. "My Henry had come to court me, and yet he was fated all along to rescue me. To capture my poor heart! And yet…"

"And yet you only say these things to keep from hurting me," he finished. "If this is not what will make you happy…I heard those things you said to your father. You must love another. You have a suitor younger and more vigorous than a widower King!"

They lapsed into silence then. Henry's heart pounded fiercely against his chest. So she did, and she simply wasn't willing to reveal his identity. And yet…if she truly saw him as "her Henry," perhaps she would confide in him. Even if he lost her to another man, he longed for her to have faith in him. Of all people in Anne's life, he was sure that he was the most adept at keeping her secrets. He had the least to gain by divulging them to others.

Suddenly he felt Anne's warm hand cover the one he had fixed around her waist. "There is one other. A childhood friend who gave his heart to me long ago, before I went to France. I thought then I might return and give him mine…only to find that it had been stolen by another, though he'd claimed it first."

To Henry's great relief, there was no resentment in her voice. He longed to ask her the identity of her first lover before deciding that it might be better not to know. She may not harbor resentment against _him_ for spoiling that potential courtship and the chance of a simple life. Henry, however, could not vouch for his own state of mind. If he knew the man's name, what stopped him—the King of England!—from trying to eliminate his only competition? Seeing her early sweetheart banished or imprisoned would only hurt Anne. The very thought of her grief soured his stomach, and nothing should spoil this moment now that he knew. She was his! By unwittingly playing her knight, Henry had won the best prize of all: her heart! "I believe you, sweetheart," he assured her. And whether Anne realized or not, she had pried _his_ withered heart from the cold hands of a dead woman. Katherine had not meant to confine him for so long…yet she had, simply because he had loved her so desperately.

He began to think of all that must be done to plan for the wedding. It must be grand.. And her coronation—grander still! How easily he forgot that she wanted as little to do with his throne as possible. Could he make it happen in two months? He envisioned a golden late-summer affair.

"Mary could hold your train," he mumbled, lost in his fantasy. "The dressmakers must be alerted…and your rooms! Your rooms must be made ready. Is August too soon for you, sweetheart?"

"August?" Anne's brow creased though he could not see it. "Henry…a simple ceremony is more than enough for me. Simple and sweet, though I'd like nothing more than to have your daughter there to witness it." Thinking of the little girl warmed her heart. And now…to think, Anne would leave Hatfield as a simple maid-of-honor and return Mary's future stepmother! Yes, that's how she would think of herself. Mary's stepmother, Henry's wife. Mother to his future children.

Not Queen Anne…not unless she could somehow use the title to benefit the English people. She knew how they suffered. Though she was a knight's daughter, she understood the perils of country living—the plague and the sweating sickness, the demands of hard labor and sometimes crippling taxes. She knew their sorrows, though she had never been a part of the poverty. And as a greedy man's child, she had little means to act on her pity. Now, if she must become King to be Henry's wife, she would be in a position to better their lives. Still, in their sorrows they knew joy the likes of which many courtiers couldn't even dream of. If she was lucky, she may even be able to do something about the corruption which ran rampant in monasteries and country parishes across the realm.

Those dreams were for the future, of course. As Henry voiced his disappointed, she was struck by a wish closer to home. "Might we go to Hatfield and deliver this news to the Princess Mary? She is such a dear child, Henry. Her happiness means more to me than my own." Anne realized even as she spoke the words that they were true. She would not deny Mary the chance to have a mother, though everyone would be happier had Katherine survived to be mother to her.

Her affection for his daughter never failed to touch him, nor Mary's for Anne. Hope swelled in Henry's breast all at once that they could be a family again, though with Anne by his side in Katherine's stead. He realized that it would be dearest gift to his children—bestowing upon them a mother.

Henry pressed a tender kiss against her silky hair. "As soon as Mary returns from Richmond, we shall visit her," he promised.

**Allington**** Castle  
12 June**

Tom Wyatt read the note three times.

Once in disbelief. It couldn't be true. Not again. He refused to believe it. Not even after her father had come to Hever…

Once in a rage. He would fight for her! He would challenge the King as he'd sworn to do! He would make threats to Boleyn, risk that snake of a man's wrath for his the sake of her. Anything for her. How dared they?

Once, finally, in sorrow. There was nothing he could do now.

_Dear Tom—_

_Please forgive me. Please tell me we might still be friends, for you are my dearest friend and always will be. Forgive me. You'll love another someday, and she will deserve you. I never have.  
_

It went unsigned, but the writer's name flowered in his blood. He forgave her. How could he not? Still, the loss came as a physical pain. He took to his bed and intended to stay there until his friends, perhaps George Boleyn himself, dragged him from it and forced him to face a world where he would forever be without her, no matter how many hours he spent in her company. Now that Anne truly was Caesar's, that newest verse had a special bittersweet quality. He swore to himself that it would be the last one he would ever write for her, but knew, even as he crushed her letter against his heart, that _all_ his lines would be for she who would forever be the Queen of Tom's heart.

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_Don't forget to leave a review!_


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: **This was going to be longer, but I couldn't find a way to add anything to it without cutting things out of the next chapter. I've been busy, and I'll probably stay busy, so…stay tuned for the royal marriage! And—thanks to all of you who've reviewed so far!

Also, I'd like to say that the idea of Anne's new rank was not mine. I borrowed it from ReganX--all the credit goes to her, and I hope she doesn't mind!

* * *

**Hatfield  
25 June**

What a glorious Midsummer it had been! There had been fireworks of all different colors, games for the Princess Mary and the country children and a grand feast. All because the King had come to visit his daughter. It had been most unexpected, just as the household returned from Richmond, much to the frustration of Lady Bryan. Their young mistress had delighted in the surprise, as she had His Majesty's previous visits. And this time, he had come not with Prince Harry nor alone, but with a woman on his arm! All of Mary's maids-of-honor were abuzz with this revelation. King Henry, in love! For Lady Jane Seymour, it did not seem possible. For nearly half her life, people had spoken of the King with pity and said that he mourned deeply for his lost Queen.

And now this. Never had Jane seen such an exquisite woman—simply clad and somehow elegant, graceful, with a commanding presence that drew stares and admiration. If she had not known Queen Katherine was dead Jane might have mistaken the two.

Mary on the other hand had recognized her at once. She ran first into her father's arms, squealing with delight—Jane's heart warmed at the sight, and made her miss her own papa desperately. Then the King turned, still holding his child with strong arms, until the pair faced his lady, lingering by the door. Mary's eyes were huge, then she laughed gleefully. "Lady Anne!" she cried, struggling down from her father's embrace.

Lady Anne had not lifted her into her arms. She curtsied instead, then kissed the child on her cheek and greeted her warmly. His Majesty watched them so tenderly Jane could hardly bear to look at him. it reminded her very much of the way Harry—the Prince of Wales, she corrected herself silently—had watched his sister.

"Why are you here with Papa?" she asked, confused, voicing the question everyone was thinking.

The King grinned. "Sweetheart, I have asked Lady Anne to marry me."

Several of the girls in the room gasped. Most of them had known Lady Anne, Jane supposed, though she'd come later, after the woman had already gone. They must be shocked to think that the new Queen should be chosen from among their number! Mary herself said nothing for a moment, wearing an oddly thoughtful expression for such a small girl. Odd, except that the Princess was far more intelligent than Jane could ever hope to be. Slowly, a smile replaced her pensive frown. She turned back to Anne. "Does that mean you will be my mother?"

"Only your stepmother, Your Highness," Lady Anne clarified.

Whatever the term, Mary was overcome by the idea of having someone she might call "Mama" in her life. She demanded to know everything about their plans, and two days later, at Midsummer, the King made an official announcement to the entire household. The older maids-of-honor converged on Lady Anne that night, while she was not dancing in the balmy moonlight with His Majesty or trying to catch Mary or another country boy or girl, only to be caught herself by King Henry and tumbling, laughing, into the soft summer grass. Jane watched them and was enchanted. He kissed her then lay back and stared up at the stars, their fingers entwined. What a pair they made, she in a rich summer blue and he in cloth-of-gold!

The King departed three days later, but consented to his betrothed remaining at Hatfield for a while, at hers and Mary's requests. By now everyone's questions that could be had been answered, and the household routine had almost fallen back to normality. This afternoon, Lady Anne sat with the Princess practicing French. Jane sat across the room from them trying to focus on her needlework. She wished she could practice reading and writing—but none of the other girls would help her and Mary was preoccupied. She had stumbled over a word just now. As Jane's blue eyes moved up and fixed on the two of them, she watched how Lady Anne smoothed the child's hair, how closely she held her, how patient her voice when she pronounced the word several times over for Mary's benefit.

Indeed, Jane thought, they could have passed for mother and daughter. Lady Anne reminded her of some old pagan goddess. Her long shadowy hair flowed in loose, romantic curls down her back; it caught the sunlight like silk and made her eyes all the more bewitching for their lightness. Her gown, made of simple green damask with a square bodice, fit her as though she'd been born to wear it, as had all her gowns Jane had seen.

In the end, the best part of Lady Anne was that she loved little Princess Mary as fiercely as Mary loved her. Every gesture she made confessed this love. Every word. Mary tired of her French work finally, and as Lady Anne closed the book from which they'd been studying, the child gazed up at her adoringly.

"You'll be my mama soon," she declared. "And Harry will think so, too. He'll love you as much as I do, Lady Anne. He'll have brothers to play with and I…I'll have sisters!" The prospect of a sister was magical to her, but nothing was as potent as the idea of finally, for the first time in her short life, having a mother. Jane couldn't imagine life without _her _mother, even if Lady Seymour never scolded Neddy or Tom and told them not to torment her. She thought that it was only proper the King should marry again and give his daughter a lady to fill that role. Boys were different—they didn't need a woman they could admire. They had their fathers and their father's friends for that.

Lady Anne laughed, and reminded Mary that she could never replace Katherine. Jane could tell she sounded a little sad when she said it, as though she wished she could be the woman who'd had Mary in her body for all those months and suffered to bring her into the world.

Jane's mother had never looked at her in the way Lady Anne was looking at her future stepdaughter, she thought, even though Jane was a part of her. She felt foolish envying their closeness, but she did. Think what kind of mother Lady Anne would be when she did marry the King!

Despite what she said about not replacing Katherine, and despite how dearly the memory of their late Queen was cherished, Jane could not help but wonder how it was possible that the English people would not fall easily under the new Queen's spell. She certainly had. She was so young and beautiful, so full of life and love that Jane had trouble believing that she had not truly been born a princess just as Queen Katherine had been.

* * *

**Whitehall  
5 July**

Princess Margaret had returned from Portugal to the shock of a lively atmosphere in Court, and most unexpected news: the King, her brother, was to be married! Hardly anyone seemed to care that the would-be Queen of Portugal had returned to her native shores still a virgin. That coveted alliance with the Portuguese had all but been forgotten. She thought at first that it was because some new alliance had been made in her absence, presumably a French one, to be cemented by this out-of-the-blue wedding. It took two days to secure an audience with her brother, in which time Margaret had found out the truth: her new sister-in-law was no foreign princess at all, but an Englishwoman…not even a peer!

When she entered his audience chamber, she was still fuming over it. A commoner to outrank her, sister, daughter and granddaughter to Kings!

She had thought to find Henry alone, but Brandon was with him—of course, she thought, Brandon was practically a third arm and leg to him. How had Henry survived with his best friend away? He'd been so desperate for company that he had acquired a bride! Since there was already a Prince of Wales, Margaret had assumed he would always wallow in his grief. Yet some English girl had mended his broken heart in such a short amount of time! Even if she wouldn't enjoy bowing and scraping to please any woman of less than royal blood, she supposed there was one silver lining to this new storm cloud: Henry would be so consumed with plans for his new bride that another match for his sister would fall by the wayside. She would have the kind of freedom she'd long dreamt of, and be able to find a new husband of her own.

"Your Majesty." Time and distance had not mended Margaret's wounded pride. She hadn't forgotten how the King had lashed out at her. She curtsied shallowly. Brandon, she noticed, was too high-and-mighty to do more than dip his chin in greeting. The nerve of that man! "My lord Suffolk," she added equally coldly.

Henry's spirits were higher than they'd been in ages, she noted. He seemed to overlook her disrespect as easily as though he were blind and deaf. "Welcome home, Margaret," he greeted jovially. When her gaze remained hard, he sighed. "Forgive me for my indiscretions before you sailed for Portugal, sister…I should not have sent you to marry their late King. I rejoiced to hear that you were not made to suffer."

The words rang with unmistakable sincerity. It struck Margaret as impossible, for this more soft-spoken, apologetic Henry was the boy she'd grown up alongside. This was the young man who had vanished upon the birth of his daughter. Somehow it did not occur to her at that moment that this new Henry had emerged because of his impending marriage. While she hardly underestimated the power of her own sex, she had seen him fall too hard once before, and thought that he would have the good sense to stay clear of that kind of passion again. Her brow creased. Could she accept his apology? Yes. It would be better for her if she did. "I forgive you, Henry." Relief at her words flashed across not only Henry's face but Brandon's as well.

"Now, brother, pray tell me of this marriage you're to make," she demanded, unable to contain her curiosity no longer.

It was clear from the way Henry grinned that he had longed to bring it up from the moment she'd set foot in his audience chamber. He was the same lovesick young King who'd finally been granted the hand of his brother's comely widow. "The Lady Anne is the daughter of my Ambassador to France…though he's a simple knight, her mother was a Howard, and their child is more regal a woman than any French princess. Of course she is," he chuckled, "for after knowing you and our mother other I could wed no less." He did not mention Katherine.

Margaret was not impressed. A Boleyn, then? She had not met the man, but she'd heard a few whispers about him—not pleasant ones, to be sure. Still, Henry was besotted. It was best to say nothing that he would take umbrage at. "How does Your Grace find the Lady Anne?" Her green eyes slid towards Brandon.

"I have not been afforded the opportunity to meet the Lady Anne, Your Highness. You may remember that we returned to Court at the same time." He said it in jest, and despite herself, Margaret smiled. Brandon would hardly enjoy having his place by Henry's side usurped, so perhaps she would have someone to share her suffering with. Perhaps making Brandon her husband was still a possibility, despite how disgusted she often felt by his behavior. She inwardly scoffed when he added, "However, I am sure she is lovely and worthy of His Majesty's affections."

Lovely! Lovely and no doubt empty-headed, being driven by her father. The girl was probably no better than a mistress, only fortunate that the King was unwed!

Trying on her sweetest smile, Margaret inquired as to when exactly they _would_ have the pleasure of meeting Henry's bride. Whenever it was, the King's sister had a mind to put her in her place. When Katherine had died, she had become the highest lady in the land—and until her little niece was grown, she was keen on keeping it that way. Her father had, if nothing else, instilled the love of power in his children.

"Soon," Henry promised. "We visited Mary at Hatfield over Midsummer's—she should return to Whitehall shortly."

Visited Mary! Margaret felt weak with envy. Hadn't _she_ been the one to comfort Harry after Katherine's death? Hadn't _she_ tried her best to fill the role of both mother and father in Mary's life when Henry, too wrapped up in his own grief, had not been able to bring himself to go to Hatfield? Now, this country girl was replacing her in even that! She saw the future—Mary running first to Anne Boleyn, her arms outstretched; male courtiers vying for the chance to dance with the Queen, leaving Princess Margaret alone and forgotten as always.

She forced the words out, trying to be civil. "And how does your daughter find her?"

Part of her hoped that Mary had railed against the possibility of having a new mother. Yet she had never known Katherine—only heard stories—so it was more likely that Harry would protest than his sister. They hadn't visited _him_, Margaret thought bitterly, Henry's precious boy-child.

According to Henry, however, the little girl had welcomed Anne, a former maid-of-honor at Hatfield, joyously. She'd even asked Henry if she could call her "Mama" sometimes! She'd wanted to know all about the wedding and if she could participate. This marriage would be a fairytale come true for her, by the sound of it.

A livered servant burst in while Henry was still in the midst of doting on his lady love. "Your Majesty," he cried breathlessly, "Lady Anne has arrived from Hatfield!" By the look—and sound—of the man, he'd run all the way from the stables. Margaret felt sure Henry had ordered them to wait for Anne and alert him when she returned to Whitehall, no matter the time of day or night. She frowned and almost felt sorry for the girl. The King's love seemed always to border on obsession, and maybe poor Katherine had died to escape it—or to escape the loss of it. Margaret knew that loss stung bitterly. After Arthur had died, she and Henry had been cut off from each other, and the bond they'd once had was twisted and strangled and starved for air, and finally seemed to have died altogether.

Once the King had left the room, she turned on Brandon. "You should have been here, Your Grace, to talk him out of such foolishness," she hissed.

As always, however, Brandon used her words to condemn her. "Surely you cannot envy her her small influence, Your Highness. It is not her fault that you lacked the good grace to go quietly to your fate." He made her feel the fool. Margaret's cheeks burned in anger and shame. She did not admire meekness in women, but could hardly look past the barb—the reminder that, had she not protested the marriage between herself and the late King of Portugal, which had never even come to fruition, she may still be in her brother's good graces.

"You know that I am always grateful for Your Grace's invaluable advice." The words came through gritted teeth and she could tell that Brandon was struggling to suppress a grin. How she would have loved to strike him hard across his handsome face!

Or better yet, another part of her mind whispered, to kiss those insolent and treasonous lips.

Margaret grimaced at the mere thought. And even worse, to know that she would have sacrificed her virginity, her honor, the highest prize a woman could give, to this insufferable man!

"The late Queen never disgraced herself by stooping to arguing with him, questioning his decisions," Brandon added, but he was still fighting against a bemused expression. "Then again, even for all her warrior blood, Katherine never had that charming Tudor temper." His eyes were fixed on Margaret's. He was challenging her. He wanted her to rise to the occasion, to unleash that temper on his head.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, only breathed, "Charles Brandon, you go too far."

He had no opportunity to retaliate. Henry reappeared, with a young woman on his arm, still in comfortable but rather informal traveling clothes, a soft ivory-colored gown, with sparse embroidery and tapered sleeves. She was unadorned except for a pearl necklace with a diamond pendant, no doubt a gift from the King, and a pearl diadem which encircled her mass of silky black hair. It flowed down her back, giving her a virginal, innocent look—probably the desired effect. Her face glowed with an inner light that sent pang of jealousy into Margaret's stomach. She had an exotic prettiness, in a way like Katherine's and yet at the same time nothing like it. But when Margaret focused on her eyes, she was taken aback, startled to find them so confident and so cool. The overall picture was certainly not a backwards girl from the English countryside. It was more like gazing into the face of a Queen or a Greek goddess, even. The King had not exaggerated so much, then.

Henry wore a winsome look. He could hardly keep his eyes off his radiant bride-to-be, and even Margaret could not blame him. "Margaret, Charles…it's my pleasure to present Lady Anne Boleyn. Sweetheart—my sister, the Princess Margaret and the Duke of Suffolk."

Brandon, rather starry-eyed, held out his hand. Anne detached herself from Henry's arm and floated over to him and curtsied gracefully. "Your Grace," she murmured, eyes downcast. He practically crushed her fingers in his before he kissed the back of her hand. "My lady Anne," he replied with a smile.

When she turned to Margaret and curtsied, her blue eyes flickered to the floor for only a moment. She must have recognized that the older woman was watching her enviously and angrily. Her "Your Highness" was almost hesitant. If she had been feeling more charitable, Margaret may have attributed this to her own menacing stare, but instead she chose to think the girl was just being insolent, taking the attitude that in a few months it would be Henry's sister who curtsied to _her_ and addressed her as "Your Majesty."

"Lady Anne, I am so glad that you shall soon be my sister." Her words could have curdled milk. Only Henry, deafened by his adoration, could have missed it.

Plainly stung, Anne begged to be allowed to return to her chambers and settle in after the long trip. The King gave in all too willingly. He probably would have thrown himself into the Thames to make her happy! Once they had gone—almost as quickly as they'd come—Brandon turned rather angrily on Margaret. "With all due respect, Your Highness, you might have been kinder to her."

She wrinkled her nose and chose to ignore the indignation in his voice. "Kinder to my brother's little harlot? Oh, _Your Grace,_" she snapped, "even you fell under her spell! Do not tell me that she did nothing to encourage his affections. Girls like that have fathers guiding their every move—ambitious, ruthless fathers. I should know." Had he lived long enough, Henry the Seventh would have arranged for his daughter just as horrible a marriage as his son had. They claimed such marriages were for the good of the country. Why shouldn't Boleyn, in a similar move, claim that Anne's marriage to the King would benefit their family?

"But then you can empathize with her. You were also nothing before the King chose to raise you."

Perhaps he was right, that she had sunk below royal dignity, but she didn't care. If he thought he could harass a Princess, let him try! Let him grovel at the new Queen's feet, for all she cared. Margaret narrowed her eyes slightly for a moment before she turned on her heel and left Brandon with those bitter words to ponder in her absence.

**11 July**

Wolsey could hardly believe the King was going to go through with these marriage plans. Imagine, Henry married to a commoner, when before he'd wed a daughter of Spain! At least his intended bride was known to favor the French. Still, she was not the French princess Wolsey himself may have selected. Hardly. Her father remained a threat to him, an enemy, as was her much more powerful uncle Norfolk. There must be some way to win her over_ before_ she became Queen. Women often had different motives than men, and he couldn't imagine what Boleyn could lay against him that would give Anne motive to despise him. Corrupt, they called him. But he still ran the realm for Henry, and God only knew England had enjoyed peace and prosperity in the years that he'd done so.

As long as the girl didn't try to involve herself in politics—as long as she remembered her place—he wouldn't mind the King marrying for his own happiness. He had been miserable enough these past five years.

His thoughts seemed to summon Henry, who pushed open the door without knocking. Wolsey plastered on a warm, fatherly sort of smile. He stood to bow shallowly to the King, his excuses including their old friendship and his own age.

"Thomas!" The greeting was jubilant, Henry's smile genuine.

Had he ever seen the young man this full of life and love and joy? Even after Prince Harry's birth? By now, Wolsey had heard rumors that Princess Margaret had made no effort to hide her discontent with this union, and yet it was as if no one at Whitehall could do wrong. And if he could not win the Lady Anne's favor, Wolsey could only pray that the mood held.

Wolsey sunk back into his chair slowly. He smoothed out the folds of his scarlet garb before raising his eyes back to the King. "Let me congratulate Your Majesty again on your great happiness."

In his euphoric state, perhaps Henry had also forgotten how quick he was to gainsay the possibility of a domestic marriage. The memory still haunted Wolsey. Never before had his advice been so quickly discarded. The old Cardinal could not lie to himself—he had grown to enjoy being a powerful, wealthy man. He enjoyed people bowing at the sight of him almost as if he himself was the King! Yes, he suffered from the sin of pride…but surely God witnessed how England had been purged of famine and war under Tudor kings!

Henry beamed. "Thank you, Your Eminence. If only you could have witnessed our visit to Hatfield! My daughter was the picture of happiness…almost as if…" A shadow passed across his face for a moment, and Wosley could guess what he had been about to say: as if Anne was Mary's mother. Thankfully it passed. "Anne and I had such fun during the festivities. Yet I fear that not everyone is as pleased as they ought to be." For the space of a breath, Wolsey wondered if the King was talking about him. "My sister, for one." Wolsey breathed again. "She thinks I could not tell! And there are whispers among my courtiers. They complain that Lady Anne is too low-born, too common…as if Howard blood—_Plantagenet _blood—weren't enough for them. Anyone who has met my Anne knows she is anything but common. So I have decided to silence them all."

"Your Majesty?" Wolsey could not imagine what Henry had in mind. It was nigh well impossible to keep the lords and ladies of the Court from gossiping.

A rather mischievous look lit up Henry's blue eyes. "I have decided to make Lady Anne a peer. She shall become the Duchess of Pembroke." He waited for Wolsey to protest and, when he did not, continued. "Pembroke belonged to my father's uncle, so it isn't as if I'm depriving them of their holdings or their income. A duchess in her own right…what say you to that, Your Eminence?"

_A duchess in her own right._ Henry sounded as though he was a boastful little boy, Wolsey thought with a slight frown. Boleyn would certainly profit from this, even if the marriage were never to come to fruition! Well, none of the courtiers would be pleased about it, but it was perfectly legal, even reasonable since she was to become the Queen of England. "They shall certainly not be able to say that your lady is a commoner, Your Majesty," he admitted.

"Exactly. I want you to arrange the ceremony." Then he stretched out his hand and laid a piece of parchment on Wolsey's desk. "And see that this is delivered to George Boleyn."

Wolsey supposed he had some plans for Anne's brother as well, which would at least not directly involve Boleyn. He inclined his head, though it strung to think that he might be doing anything which might bring satisfaction to one of his enemies. "I am Your Majesty's humble servant." However, he realized he had not thought to ask why neither Boleyn nor his son was at Court. He thought with wonderment that maybe—just maybe, a slim possibility to be sure—Anne had enough sense to keep the serpent from what would soon become her personal Eden.

Henry was already halfway to the door before he stopped and turned around. "Oh…one other thing, Your Eminence. The Queen's chambers. I want them renovated at once, perhaps in the French style. Have them consult Lady Anne on what she would prefer, but make sure the work is finished in time for our wedding." His voice sounded a little ragged. Wolsey knew that Katherine's rooms had not been touched since she'd died—left musty and dark, but the way she had arranged them. Renovating them only emphasized how devoted he was to his lady. It impressed Wolsey, though he would never say it.

"As Your Majesty wishes," Wolsey said with a small smile.

As the King left, he scrawled a note to the Lady Anne, inviting her to have a private audience with him the next day.

* * *

**Hever  
16 July**

George had to read the letter twice. His sister, a _duchess_! He could hardly believe it. Anne was to become Duchess of Pembroke by the end of the month and by September, Queen of England. He couldn't help but wonder what she thought of it all and wished the letter had been penned by Anne rather than the King. She had made it clear enough to him by pursuing Wyatt behind the King's back that she had no burning desire to be Queen. She may have some ambitions—hadn't all of them, with Thomas Boleyn as a father?—but that of all things was not even something she welcomed when it was given to her! It amazed him and pleased him, too. Anne was a rare jewel. Perhaps the King was the only man who deserved to possess her.

Possess her! George scoffed at the thought. No one could possess Anne, not even her own father. He would be saddened to see her tamed by marriage.

Boleyn burst abruptly into the house. "The post came?" he growled. His tongue was more acidic than ever now that Anne had escaped further punishment. That he was not able to deliver her proudly into the King's arms surely stung.

It served his father right for treating her so…and what did that say about himself, George wondered, that he hadn't stepped in and spoken up for his sister's sake? Too late for that, though. And it was he the King was writing to, not his father. Hopefully Anne had forgiven him for his weakness.

"Yes, Father. It is from London…from His Majesty." The words had barely escaped George's lips when Boleyn snatched the parchment from his hand.

As Boleyn's eyes scanned the words, they widened almost comically. He began to laugh. The sound made George cringe—cold, self-satisfied, as though this surprise had sprouted from him practically beating his daughter before the King. He must have read it again and then a third time before he finally looked up at his son, eyes gleaming. "Duchess of Pembroke! I wish I could see what that fat Cardinal thinks of that! By the end of the month…why, then, we must prepare! See to it that our best things are packed," he ordered, still chuckling.

The young man wrinkled his nose. He wanted to remind his father that the last time he had seen the King and Anne, he had been frozen in horror. Had he forgotten what he'd done to her? His ambition blinded him. His ambition had turned his heart to lead. Sometimes, George wondered what might have happened to them all if his mother had not died all those years ago. Anne may well be wed to Tom Wyatt by now. Mary may never have been used as a King's whore. None of that had happened, however…and now, perhaps for the first time, George would have the pleasure of crossing his father. He had spent his childhood in awe of him, and feared being disinherited as he grew older and Boleyn, harsher.

Not anymore. His sister would be Queen soon. George swore to himself that whatever happened, he would neither exploit that fact nor fail her a second time. He loved her—more than he loved Mary, it was true—and wanted to prove it to her.

"The King has not extended the invitation to you, Father," he pointed out softly.

He may as well have slapped him. Boleyn narrowed his eyes and took a menacing step towards his son. "I told you to begin preparations for us to go to London."

George willed himself to step forward as well. "This was penned in the King's own hand," he said. "He requests that I come to the ceremony, but there is no mention of your presence, sir. It would not surprise me if you were barred from coming." The words were by far the boldest he'd ever dared utter to Boleyn. Both of them knew it, and the father was going red in the face. First insolence in his daughter and now his son! "And if Anne does not want you at Whitehall, you have only yourself to blame."

It was something altogether new seeing Boleyn speechless. George was more than happy to let him keep the King's letter along with the knowledge that his days of abusing and profiting from his children were coming to a close.

* * *

**Whitehall  
29 July**

The ceremony yesterday had been almost nauseating. Anne stood before the mirror in her chambers—still modest ones, for now, close to those of her sister and brother-in-law—being fitted for a new wardrobe. One team of French dressmakers was already hard at work on her wedding gown…now this.

"The King is so generous," Mary Carey sighed, sitting beside her. Her eyes caressed the fabric samples the women had brought with them—silks and velvets and the most delicate lace in a wide array of colors. Anne wondered if her sister was envious.

"Yes," she agreed, "but I intend to continue wearing my old gowns as well." She didn't want to seem ungrateful, but just now she felt as though she was suffocating beneath the King's generosity. It seemed like too much, too soon—a duchy bestowed upon a mere knight's daughter, then a crown thrust upon her not two months later. And besides that, the funds Henry dispensed for her sake—new jewels, new gowns, renovating Katherine's chambers! Anne knew that courtiers whispered about her. She'd bewitched the King. As soon as she had a son, she would try to rid herself of Prince Harry and Princess Mary.

Anne loved Henry, and she knew he loved her to the point of nearly worshipping her. But if she must become Queen to be with him, she wanted to be loved by the people, too. At least not hated! She had done nothing to earn the courtiers' scorn. It was not _her_ fault that the King had fallen hard and fast for her and not one of their daughters. And though it had not been her intention, she had in many ways done England a favor by rousing him from his sorrow.

Mary's pretty mouth turned down in a slight frown. "What's wrong, Anne?"

Her tone was reprimanding, and no wonder: she must think it odd that Anne was not glowing with delight or flaunting her new position. Anne just shook her head. She couldn't fully explain it to herself, much less to Mary. She had enough to worry about, being heavy with child as she was. It simply felt as though she were being pulled in many different ways at once. She must find a way to be a mother, a Queen and a wife all at once…and worse, being Queen came with obligations beyond helping the poor and sewing the King's shirts. She remembered the audience with Wolsey a few days before. He was as bad as her father, trying to buy her loyalty. But the real surprise was that more people had not tried to do so by now. Once there the King's ring was on her finger, she knew she could expect many such offers.

_Stop being so childish, _she scolded herself. Other queens in the past had done this, and not all of them had been born royal or privileged. Henry had put his faith in her, not only to be his wife, but to be his consort…to fill the void Katherine's death had left in his children's lives. That was more than Anne had a right to ask of him.

Though the elder Boleyn girl looked as though she wanted to press, she was distracted by a knock at the door. It opened to reveal the King. Mary scrambled to her feet and made a clumsy curtsy. The dressmaker dropped her pins. Anne couldn't keep from grinning at their haste to show respect to Henry. She, too, dropped into a curtsy—carefully so as not to stick herself. Henry crossed briskly towards them. He raised Mary, glancing down at her swollen abdomen. Both of them blushed slightly. "Please, Lady Carey, do not inconvenience yourself."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Her eyes darted between Henry and Anne, then she cleared her throat. "Excuse us."

The dressmaker lady took the hint. Once she had freed Anne of her fabric prison and gathered her pins, she followed Mary out. Anne, left only in her shift, turned modestly away from him so she could don her robe. "I have brought someone to meet you, sweetheart." To Anne, it would have been better by the sound of Henry's voice if the visitor was sent away and introduced another time. He lifted up her raven hair. His free hand slid to her slim waist and he bent to press his lips against her pale neck. She deftly sidestepped his kiss and smiled coyly. No one ought to walk in and find the King so absorbed with his lady. Henry smiled, too, reluctantly.

When he came through the door, Anne was doubly glad she had checked Henry's desire. There stood Prince Harry, her handsome soon-to-be stepson. "Your Highness."

They had met once before at Hatfield. How far away that March day seemed now! Anne had just arrived home, feeling more French than English, and had been delivered almost at once into the Princess Mary's service. She would never have dreamed that she might catch the King's eye—not to become his mistress, certainly not to become his _wife._ Seeing his son reminded Anne poignantly of how suddenly all of this had happened. To think that now she was being reintroduced to the Prince of Wales as his future stepmother.

He bowed a little in return, greeting her as "Your Grace." She opened her mouth to correct him—she had not yet begun to think of herself as the Duchess of Pembroke, how could she?—but thought better of it and held her tongue. She might as well accustom herself to such things now. Very soon, courtiers would be fashioning her "Your Majesty."

Rising, the boy's eyes gleamed with recognition. "I know you, my lady. Were you not part of my sister's household?"

It filled Anne with unexpected pleasure that Harry should remember her, though their paths had crossed so briefly. She smiled. "I was, Your Highness. And I would have happily stayed if not for your father's interference."

Henry glanced up. Anger flashed across his face before he realized Anne was teasing him. Then he grinned sheepishly. "It is my fault for depriving your sister of her favorite lady," he admitted, "but soon she will have…" He trailed off and looked stricken. Anne reached out to touch his arm. She wondered, since she was to be his wife, if he would ever escape the pain of losing Katherine. Was he truly prepared to put that short-lived marriage behind him? Could he do as he had promised her and give her his heart—his _soul? _She wasn't sure she wanted that much from him, but she certainly did not want the shadow of a dead woman hovering over them.

"No one can else can be your mother, Your Highness. I only hope to love you and Mary as she did…though that is not such a difficult task."

The boy's face remained calm. If discussing Katherine was painful for him, he did not show it. He had been only five when she'd died. Anne could empathize with him. Her memories of her own mother were distorted and unclear, a child's memories, and she had been raised in the same household as her parents, unlike the young Prince. "Thank you, my lady. It's clear to me that you are dear to my father and my sister already," he replied with a faint smile.

He bowed to her again. Anne suspected that this interview had been shorter than either father or son had expected. The subject of Katherine had driven a wedge into it. Henry stood there stiffly; his blue eyes glassy and unseeing—as though shutting himself off from the world would free him from his five years' worth of sorrow rather than trap himself within it. This was one thing she could not hope to counsel him on. He would be unlikely to appreciate any attempt she made to console what was by now a deep and ill-healed wound. So she slid her hand from Henry's arm and curtsied to his son, muttering, "Your Highness" as he left the room. Henry said nothing at all to her, barely even glanced her way, when he left.

Doubt clutched Anne's heart, too late this time. She had made promises too, and she refused to crawl back to her father's lands to face his wrath a second time. All she could do now was hope that Henry would not dwell on his loss once they were married—but even if he did, Anne knew he loved her as well as Katherine. That was more than some women had.

Mary swept back into the room. When her sister reached her side, Anne turned away from her. She had never got on as well with Mary as with George, and didn't want to try to explain her heartache to either of them…not when her sister was so excited that she should be marrying the King.

"Leave me, Mary. Please."

"Why, Anne!" Mary touched her shoulder, sounding shocked and not a little hurt. "You've been crying! What is it?"

Anne could have been cruel. She could have ordered Mary out, or done what Henry was so fond of—pull curtains before her eyes, face her sister as an empty shell. Then she would be little more than a hypocrite, shedding tears over Henry's coldness yet emulating it at the same time. But the tenderness in Mary's voice broke her. She laughed softly and leaned into her sister's loose embrace. "He still loves her. She's been dead for five years and he still loves her!" Anne glanced up at her, blue eyes swimming with hopeless tears.

"My darling little Nan!" Mary stroked Anne's dark hair tenderly. "He loves you, I know he does. Just give him time, and your love, and he'll let her go. Be brave, Nan."

She sounded confident enough to soothe Anne's fears. Anne laughed weakly and lifted a hand to wipe her tears away. Her sister was right—she had to find the courage to go through with this. There was nothing else for it. If she was going to be Henry's Queen, she would have to endure more than his grief for his dead wife. And whatever else his faults, she would never forget that Henry had rescued her from her father's ambition-fueled cruelty—that even if he still loved Katherine, he loved her enough to try again to love for her sake.

For now, that would have to be enough. Anne could not ask Henry for more.


	8. Chapter Seven

Welcome new reviewers **Pale Treasures**, **Noble Pond**, **The Happiest**, and **TudorGirl910489**!

**A/N: **I'm sorry I kept you all waiting so long, but I've been insanely busy with school. Hopefully this will hold you over until I get another update written—I'll have lots more time soon! And as always, thank you for reviewing. It means a lot to me!

* * *

**30 July**

Anne sat with her chin resting on her palm, her elbow propped up against her little desk. She observed herself indifferently in an oval hand-mirror. No matter how hard she tried, she could not see a duchess staring back at her. It was the same girl she had always seen—bow-shaped lips, big blue eyes and a slightly upturned nose. Pretty, maybe, but nothing special. Nothing regal. She had always thought herself quite lovely before, but now that Henry had fallen so quickly for her, Anne questioned her reflection. What made her so desirable? Why did he see a future Queen, or even a duchess, in her face?

"I quite enjoyed the ceremony, Your Grace." A teasing lilt drifted into her bedchamber from the doorway.

The sound pulled Anne from her thoughts. She gasped softly and stood up, knocking a hairbrush from the desk in her haste. Her brother stood leaning against the doorframe, a slightly impish smile on his face. If she had resented him for failing to defend her from their father's wrath, all that resentment melted away as soon as she saw him.

"Oh, George!" She flung herself shamelessly into his arms.

George chuckled and kissed the top of her head. "Hello, Nan. All grown up and a duchess now," he marveled softly. "And yet you do not look any different than the last time I saw you, when you were just plain Mistress Anne!"

Anne gave him a playful shove. "I do not feel much different, either," she admitted softly.

A frown tugged at the corners of her brother's mouth. "No happier, either?" he asked softly. Unlike Mary, he did not insist that Anne everything to be happy about. She had everything to be grateful for. Duchess of Pembroke, soon Queen of England, with the King's nearly slavish devotion. And most importantly, freedom from their dictatorial father. He seemed to understand that she had reasons to worry as well.

She shrugged. "If I make His Majesty happy, that is enough."

In truth, she was just as concerned for the King's sake as for her own. She had not seen him since yesterday, since he had fled from the subject of his late wife. It was well known that Henry had lived in despair for years since Katherine's death—he had not been a good King during that time. She recognized that it would be her duty as his wife to keep him from slipping into that trap again.

She wished her brother wouldn't look at her so skeptically. If she had been a selfish creature as a child, it was only because their father had doted on her and spoiled her. Hadn't she told him by now that she wanted no part of being Queen? "I want him to be happy, George, I do. For his own sake, and his children's," she insisted, annoyed that he didn't seem to believe her. "You have not met the Princess Mary. She needs a mother." _She needs one as badly as we did, _Anne thought, wondering for the thousandth time how life could have been different if Elizabeth Boleyn had not died so young.

George kissed the top of her head tenderly. "If you are willing to put aside your own happiness for his, then he doesn't deserve you, Nan. No one does," he murmured.

"You are only saying that because you are my brother," she protested, but her anger dissolved almost immediately. How could she hold anything against him? True, George hadn't defended her against their father's wrath, but that had been a blessing in disguise—it had allowed Henry to step up and prove that he truly cared for her. "Besides, it isn't Henry who doesn't deserve me. It is the other way around!"

Anne laughed weakly. She took George's dear face in her hands and stared silently into his eyes for a long moment. "Be truthful with me, George—do you see a Queen in me?" He made to say something, but she pressed her fingers against his lips. "Do you?"

Now that she had asked, she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to hear the answer. What if he said no? What if he professed that he could never see his little sister as Queen of England? Was it just because they had grown up together, or would it mean that she would never be a fit consort to Henry? Her eyes welled with tears, despite attempting to blink them frantically away—she certainly wouldn't seem much of a Queen if she wept out of cowardice.

"Nan, you'll be the loveliest Queen since…Eleanor of Aquitaine. No, lovelier. You have nothing to be afraid of. Henry loves you, his daughter loves you. Surely the people will love you as well. I see no reason why not. Especially when you bear them sweet little princesses and a handsome Duke of York," he assured her, smiling indulgently.

Princesses. A Duke of York. Anne frowned slightly and turned away from him. She was more worried about being a fit mother to the Princess Mary than she was about mothering her own children. Yet bearing the King sons…that was expected of her. Anything could happen to Prince Harry. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that if something was to happen, she would fall under immediate suspicion. And though she would never lay a hand on Henry's son, she wondered if Henry would believe her, especially if she was to have a boy… She closed her eyes. Why did loving someone have to be so complicated? Why couldn't the King have found someone else?

Why did she have to know that she would never have been content with Tom Wyatt?

Her brother's hand closed around her shoulder. "What are you thinking, Nan?" he murmured.

"George, I don't want to be the Queen," she whispered. "I don't want to have a son if he's always to be less important, even less loved, than his brother…if he will put _me_ in danger. And he will! There are already women here who hate me!"

"I'm sure they don't _hate—"_

"Oh, they do!" Anne shrugged him off. He didn't understand, he wouldn't.

Undettered, George continued: "And I'm sure that your son would not be less loved, not with you as his mother. Besides, you never know what might—"

His voice died. Anne wheeled around, turning a hard, disgusted expression on him. There were times that she could scarcely believe that her sweet brother was Thomas Boleyn's son, but suddenly she saw quite clearly that he was. Thinking of Prince Harry's death was bad enough, but to think they could gain from it was worse still. "You are speaking treason," she hissed at him. "Prince Harry will make a fine King someday. Queen Katherine was a better woman than I can ever hope to be, and I am sure she was not raised in such a viper's nest."

"Anne…"

She turned around again, willing him away before he saw her tears. And once she heard his footsteps fade, Anne sank to her knees and began to sob. It didn't escape her that she had never shed so many tears in such a short time in her life as she had since she met King Henry.

* * *

Margaret was still seething. She had been forced to attend not only the ceremony that created that little chit a Duchess—practically her equal, she thought furiously—but she could not even find a way around congratulating the woman. Worse, she had seen again how Anne held herself with a certain dignity that would have made her stand apart even if she had not been the center of attention, with many other women, and a fair share of starry-eyed men, vying for her attention. Though she was sure Anne's eyes had gleamed with reluctance, Margaret had watched her meet the task with cool confidence. It stirred envy and hatred in her heart.

Anne Boleyn, barely a girl, a knight's daughter, was about to become Queen of England. She, already very much a woman and a king's daughter, had been in a position to be Queen of Portugal. But there was all the difference in the world between their two Kings. That was what Margaret wanted—a strong, handsome man like her brother.

At the same time, she didn't want a man anything like her brother. If there was one thing she didn't envy Anne, it was the task of repairing Henry's heart.

If only she could beg his permission to leave and stay at some country house at least until the fanfare about the Lady Anne died down. She knew all to well, however, that her brother would not permit his own sister to show such disrespect—he may not have noticed before, but she could just hear Anne's sweetly seductive voice whispering nasty things in his ear. They had been back for nearly a month, she would say. Your sister is not paying me the proper respect, she would say. Well, whatever she said, she had Henry in the palm of her hand! It was disgusting.

So why was she so impressed? To be able to wrap Brandon around her finger like that…

"Your Highness?"

As though her thoughts had summoned him, Charles Brandon stood at the door. Here was another commoner raised too high by the King. No one could say that Henry wasn't good to his friends!

Hoping she wasn't glowering at him, Margaret rose from her chair and curtsied shallowly. Her eyes never left his face, that handsome face! She hadn't seen Brandon, at least not in private, for nearly a month. How had she not realized how dull the month had been without the banter she had come to expect from him? "Your Grace," she greeted coolly, testing the waters. The last time they had seen each other, Brandon had been far too taken with the Boleyn girl. She had insulted him, still burning with indignation that Henry should choose a bride so abruptly after so many years of being a virtual hermit.

"I have come to escort you," he explained, staring over her shoulder, at the group of ladies who had just scrambled to their feet. None of them looked prepared for a feast.

"Your Grace?" As much as she hated to be caught off her guard, Margaret genuinely didn't know what he was talking about. She wasn't fit to be escorted anywhere; how could she be in the evening? Then slowly it dawned on her: of course Henry was celebrating his upcoming nuptials and his bride being made a peer.

She was not prepared, nor would Henry miss the fact that she wasn't there. She stood there, gaping at Brandon, for at least a full minute. "Oh, I had forgotten…er…please excuse me, Your Grace. I must prepare myself."

Margaret rushed towards her bedchamber. She felt feeling utterly foolish and out-of-control, which she considered a hideous sensation, particularly around Brandon. Her ladies flocked in after her, helping her shed her pale pink gown, a little rumpled from a day's wearing, for something more formal and suitable for the occasion. They were relacing her corset when the door swung open. The ladies all gasped and crowded around their mistress, as though trying to protect and hide her.

Brandon stood in the doorway, his eyes ablaze in the evening sunlight that still poured in Margaret's windows. It was a hungry look that sent a tremor down her spine. She knew she was indecent. No man except her husband—and she had none—ought to see her like this, barely even in respectable undergarments, as though such things _could_ be respectable, with a gaggle of speechless, modest ladies trying to shield her bare arms and ankles from view. Her breathing had transformed from even, almost heavy with boredom, to a quick gasp. Her hands, clenched on the bedposts, were saved from trembling only because she kept her fingers firmly wrapped around the solid wood.

One of the women stammered, "Your G-g-grace sh-should n-not see our l-lady thus!"

When he spoke, Brandon's voice was soft and authoritative. "Your lady is safe with me. Go."

So much for loyalty, Margaret thought, watching them scatter. The room had filled with fog. It was hard to make out fantasy from reality, for she had lusted after this man, she knew, for such a long time. Yet for all her talk, she hadn't the kind of courage to satisfy herself…or him. Brandon looked at her as though he could already see what waited underneath her undergarments…she let out a shuddering breath and released the bedpost, uncurling her fingers methodically.

He came a step closer; she willed herself to remain where she was. "You are taking a great liberty, Your Grace," she breathed. The idea of somehow escaping this long-awaited moment struck her as unbearable. Why escape when she could finally have what she wanted? Yes, brother Henry would be furious—if he ever found out?

_Why should he? He is much too infatuated with his little Boleyn._

Another step—Brandon, forwards; Margaret, back. "Do not play the coy little princess," he growled, and he sounded so strange…

"Do I tempt you, Your Grace?" This time it was Margaret's turn to step forward. "Did you dream about me on our little ship? Did you want to come to me in the night?"

His hands were big and strong. They easily encircled her waist. She did not resist. Brandon pulled her the rest of the way. He crushed her gently against him. Their eyes bored into each other's, hers a muddled blue, his olive-grey. And then Brandon's lips were on hers. His fingers fumbled with her corset laces; hers were unsteady on his doublet buttons. He tugged her corset away from her body, shrugged off the doublet, somehow kicked his way out of his shoes. She tore at his shirt, nearly ripping it before he parted from her only long enough to discard it. Finally, both half-clothed, they collapsed on Margaret's bed.

Gazing up at him, she felt more awake than she'd ever been before. His body was so close and real and warm. "We shouldn't." It was far too late for second thoughts, but lying there, her pent-up desire seemed spent already, replaced by a longing, less physical but just as consuming.

Brandon brushed her tangled curls away from her face. He kept silent. "Henry will miss us," she added, unable to keep the words to herself. Though she wanted him, and she would not deny it now, Margaret was slightly afraid. She feared the consequences and feared that she had, after all, fallen for a man who was absolutely like her brother. What if he walked away after tonight? As much as she wanted to tell him how she felt—perhaps not love, but something akin to love—she lacked the courage, and the words, to do so.

"There was no feast," he muttered finally, rolling onto his back beside her.

Stunned, Margaret tried to make sense of those words. No feast? No celebration to be escorted to? She propped herself up on her elbow, staring at him. "You were going to take advantage of me!" The words came less as an accusation than as a realization. It shouldn't have surprised her. That was what men like Brandon did—they took advantage. She just hadn't imagined any man would sink this low.

Shouldn't she be angry? Brandon had simply decided that he was going to sleep with her, when they hadn't spoken for over a fortnight. He was arrogant and overconfident and narcissistic…so why didn't she scream at him or slap him or at least make some attempt at modesty?

"Charles Brandon, you forget your place. Nothing can happen between us without the consent of my brother," Margaret sighed. "Nor without mine. You are not my husband. You are just a handsome rake. I will not lay down for you whenever you decide you want me." A rake, yes, but a handsome one indeed. She leaned over him and brushed her lips against his. "Now put your clothes on, sir, and make sure the King never hears of it."

He put his hand against her cheek, trying to deepen the kiss, but she lifted her head. "No, Charles, not like this."

Brandon must have been able to tell that she had made up her mind, because he groaned softly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Stumbling to his feet, he collected his scattered clothes, pulling the shirt on, buttoning up the doublet. She watched, torn between regret and determination, memorizing the way he moved, how the muscles in his chest and arms strained beneath his skin. He paused in the doorway to look at her, still sprawled on the big four-poster—and even after he had gone, her eyes lingered on the place where he had stood. Her ladies poured back into the room nervously. Margaret tried to shed her wistful expression.

"M-my lady, did h-he…compromise your v-virtue?" one of them ventured.

"No." The relief on all their faces was almost comical. "But I almost wanted him to," she added softly to herself. Their first encounter had left her wondering whether there would ever be a second. She hoped the answer was yes.

**3 August**

"_Papa!_" Before Lady Salisbury had the opportunity to scold her little charge for not greeting the King properly, he had swept her up in his arms. Mary giggled as he showered her face with kisses, clinging to him. She had always loved coming to Court in the past. It meant that her father might actually pay attention to her for a little while. Now, it meant all kinds of wonderful things—being with her new mama and Papa and Harry all at once, and attending feasts and jousts…and, of course, a wedding. She had been too excited to sleep properly for days.

Her Papa looked a little tired himself, but he beamed at her anyway. These days he was _always_ glad to see her. Mary was convinced the reason was Lady Anne. Without her, he would have stayed sad about Mary's mama forever. She was a little too young to realize that he would always be sad about that, or that falling in love with one person didn't always mean falling out of love with another.

"Lady Salisbury says I'm to have a new gown for the wedding," she prompted eagerly.

"You are indeed," her papa said, smiling, "though I think it was meant to be a surprise."

"Can I see it?" Mary didn't care if it was supposed to be a surprise. She wanted to see it right away, to try it on and to dance around her rooms in it, because surely it was lovely and it would make her look like the most beautiful princess there ever was. Lady Anne's dresses always made her look that way.

Henry laughed a little at her enthusiasm. "No, sweetheart, it isn't finished yet."

Mary's eyes widened. "But the wedding is in two weeks! It _must_ be finished!" Lady Salisbury had told her about the new dress ages ago. If hers wasn't finished, what about the Lady Anne's? Mary was much smaller, and besides, she wasn't going to be the center of attention. She had heard from one of the servants at Hatfield that, in the country, a woman's wedding day was considered one of the happiest and most important of her entire life. And they were just becoming ordinary housewives—the Lady Anne would be a _Queen! _Two weeks was a terribly long time. How would she ever wait that long? How was Anne waiting that long? When she fell in love, Mary decided, she'd get married right away, even it that meant not wearing a fancy gown or having feasting and dancing.

When her papa didn't seem to have an answer, Mary forged ahead. "What about Harry? Is he here? Can I see him?" Two months without her brother was practically an eternity.

"Harry is with his tutors now. Will you settle for me?" His tone was playful. Mary giggled again, nodding her dark head vigorously and then, after a moment's thought, pressing a kiss against his smooth cheek. Even though Papa didn't have much free time, Mary coveted that time selfishly. She wasn't old enough for her first confessions yet, but when she had admitted to this "sin," their priest at Hatfield had seemed sad. He told her that God would forgive her.

She thought for a long moment about what she wanted to do. "Teach me how to dance the way you and Mama did, one of those Spanish dances," she entreated at last. "Harry and I can dance together after the wedding!"

A shadow passed over the King's face; the room held its breath. Few people had the courage to summon such a memory from the depth of his grief. After a moment, however, it was gone and he appeared willing to show her the steps to resurrect a little chapter of his life, long ago, when the world had still seemed bright and golden for him and his lovely Spanish bride.

Watching the happy reunion, Jane Seymour felt disappointed. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Prince of Wales again, if only because he had been so kind to her the last time she had seen him. He probably didn't even remember her—why should he?—but Jane was convinced that she would never forget him. Watching Mary, who was clutching her father's hand, her feet on top of his, she wondered if the girl realized how lucky she was. She had a father and stepmother who adored her and a brother who said he couldn't live without her.

Jane knew that envy was a sin but didn't feel guilty for it. Someday this little girl would be a lovely Queen or Duchess or grand lady, the King's beloved daughter; she, Jane, would simply be a mousy little English girl, perhaps the wife of an earl if she was lucky.

She remembered the Prince of Wales' smile as he patiently taught her the letters—she had been practicing—and the way he'd said her name: Jane. Just Jane. The King's son was the only one who had ever made her feel special. Someday, he would be the King himself and the husband of some exotic princess, and she would still be lowly little Jane…but at least she would always have that: a prince's kindness and his voice lilting a little as he pronounced those four letters.

**11 August**

Anne's ladies flocked around her, admiring the fabulous wedding gown the seamstresses had brought for some final alterations. The gentle afternoon light poured in, illuminating the white silk and making the golden embroidery sparkle. It dipped sweetly and modestly, stopping just below the first swell of her breasts. She wondered if they'd done it to torment Henry. But the embroidery was, she had to admit, exquisite, and she loved the skirt, which dripped with little pearls. For the first time, she had to admit that she felt like a bride.

"You look like a fairy queen," Princess Mary announced. She was in her new gown as well. Henry had wanted it to be green and white, the colors of his dynasty, but Anne had overruled the decision. Instead, it was a deep blue; in the light, the silk shimmered. Mary had loved it on sight and she had been dancing around her soon-to-be stepmother's bedchambers for the better part of an hour, practicing the steps her father had taught her.

She babbled on about how her brother said this or her father did that. It hurt Anne to think that he could overcome his grief so easily for Mary, who he hadn't even been able to visit for most of the girl's life, when she still had not seen him since she had mentioned Katherine to his son. She hated herself for that, being jealous of an innocent, faultless child. Henry's absence was, however, worrying her. He had sent her a few notes wishing her well and called her "his sweetheart," but they could not ease her fears. What if he had changed his mind about loving her? She did not want to trap either of them in a loveless marriage. This fitting was only compounding her fears. She could not shake the picture of standing at the altar with an expressionless Henry…

Anne seized the perfect skirt, crushing the silk and pearls beneath her slender fingers. "My lady! Where are you going!" the women called after her, but she ignored them. She even willed herself to ignore Mary's confused cries.

She wove through the corridors, grateful they were all nearly empty, until she came to the King's audience chamber. His stunned guards admitted her, perhaps thanks to her panicked expression.

Henry raised his head, dumbfounded, when she burst through the door. "Anne?"

"Why have you not come to see me?" she demanded, knowing she must sound frantic. "I am sorry I brought up the late Queen in front of your son. I am sorry I upset you. If you have changed your mind—if you do not love me—"

Wearing a puzzled expression, Henry put his hands on her arms to still and silence her. "Anne, you are talking nonsense. I have been busy, sweetheart, that's all. I cannot neglect my duties, and I have been spending a little time with Harry. He's here so rarely. And our wedding is in less than a week. There are matters that must be seen to. Haven't you received my notes?"

Every word he spoke made Anne feel more and more foolish. Yes, she had received the notes, and perceived them as cold—even cruel. Of course he was busy. Of course he had things to attend to. Did she really think that Katherine had seen him regularly, much less every day? Angrier with herself than with him, Anne felt a flush creep slowly into her face. She realized how utterly ridiculous she must look, standing in front of him in the gown that he was not supposed to see until their wedding day.

Henry smiled and stepped towards her, reaching for her hands. His eyes never once strayed from her face. It was almost as if he could not see the gown at all. "I am sorry, Anne. I haven't meant to neglect you. The past few weeks have gone by so quickly." He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Anne couldn't find the words to apologize. She simply curtsied to him, hiding her burning face. He promised to visit her soon; she thanked him and fled from the room, already dreading the questions that faced her when she returned to her fitting. She wished she could go to George, but she hadn't seen him since their quarrel—she was not even sure he was still at Court. So she had no choice but to trudge back to her chambers, trying to hold her head high as she went.

**17 August  
Westminster**

The King of England stood before Cardinal Wolsey in this grand cathedral with his hands clasped, longing for Anne to arrive and for the ceremony to finally begin. It seemed the whole court was there, straining to catch a glimpse of the bride, their future Queen. They whispered to each other, waiting and wondering, impatient. What was taking them so long, would they be expected to stand there forever? But a great cheer from outside rang even through the heavy wooden doors. The peasants crowded onto the streets of London stirred Henry's heart. They seemed happy to know that he was marrying again, and one of their own. He heard the shouts: "God bless Your Grace!" and other such warm greetings. He could imagine Anne's milky cheeks burning pink. She may not want to be their Queen, but _they_ wanted her…and so did he. He longed for her, if only to see her, after so long anticipating this day.

It was a day to be surpassed only by her coronation, he told himself again. She may be stunning today, but she would be flawless then.

The doors opened, and the applause from the people gathered stirred Henry's heart.

But it was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing Anne appear there, her arm tucked into her brother George's. She was a vision. Her face was hidden by a translucent veil shot through with gold thread, but there was no disguising her thick, dark curls or that she simply glowed in the candlelight. His daughter Mary trotted after them, her little fingers curled tightly around the train of Anne's gown, beaming around at all the people. Yet he had no eyes for his precious child, only for Anne. She was so lovely, breathtakingly so.

When they reached him, George gently placed his sister's hand in the King's waiting one. Henry saw her smile at both of them through the veil. She curtsied and whispered, "Your Majesty," so softly that he could barely hear her.

Wolsey began the ceremony, his deep voice ringing beneath the high carved ceilings. The familiar Latin washed over Henry like a dream. He had lived this moment twelve years earlier, only it was another woman whose hands he held. Death, however, had indeed done them part, and he was free to make the same vows again.

He swore to love and protect her; she, to love and obey him in all things. The Cardinal actually smiled at them as he pronounced them husband and wife in the eyes of God. Mary Boleyn stepped forward, lifting Anne's veil. Beneath it, Henry's bride looked radiant. He drank her in for a moment before pressing a tender but all too brief kiss against her waiting lips. Few even got a first chance at love and happiness. He was getting a second. She must truly have been sent to him by God.

After Henry broke the kiss, Anne marveled that the ceremony had passed so quickly. She entered the cathedral as simply the Lady Anne. She would exit it as someone's wife. Over Henry's shoulder, she saw Prince Harry beaming. Little Mary was no doubt wearing the same enthusiastic grin. Anne longed to bend down and pull her stepdaughter into her arms. Instead, she rested her hand on Henry's arm and took a deep breath. The people seemed to approve of her, and she could only pray to be worthy of them, for this time she went to meet them as their Queen.

Walking out of the cathedral, however, seemed to take forever on its own. She tried to breathe properly and to ignore the eyes of what must be Henry's entire court. By now they had all heard of her, but they had not all seen her. She had the horrible feeling that this was the moment by which she would be judged forever. Though the occasion had been perfect in her eyes, she knew that some of them must be wondering why it had been George and not her father who had led her to the King's side. She knew that many of the lords and ladies were measuring her against their daughters—her pedigree, her beauty, the way she walked, how she reacted to their stares—and wondering what exactly set her apart. There were a few mercifully warm faces in the crowd, however: Charles Brandon, her uncle Norfolk, and some of Henry's friends, who looked as though they were biting their tongues against cheers.

The summer day had turned brilliant and warm Henry led her out of the high doors. The crowds had, if anything, grown, and as soon as they spotted the royal couple, a deafening roar rose up from them. Anne heard the same whole-hearted blessings as she had before, for God to bless and keep them and to send them many children.

_They love him. And they love me because I love me because I love him. _A small smile tugged at the corner of Anne's lips and she turned to see Henry's reaction to this reception.

It surprised her to find that his attention was still fixed on her—they might have been alone for all he seemed to notice the people screaming their goodwill. Only when she felt his hand on her cheek and his lips pressed against hers did she realize he wasn't at all oblivious. The kiss earned them an even louder ovation. The kiss left her breathless and a little giddy. She laughed at Henry's rakish grin and slipped her hand down his arm, lacing their fingers together. He led her down the steps and to their waiting carriage, but though his was focused solely on her, Anne could not tear her eyes away from the people tossing flower petals and crying her name.

**Whitehall**

Prince Harry had never even seen such a feast, much less been a part of one. By what good fortune he and his sister had been permitted to stay and celebrate their father's marriage, he couldn't guess. Lady Salisbury hovered over her mistress, pursing her lips, warning her against too much wine, but Mary was clearly not listening to a word she said. She was too fixated on watching the courtiers spin on the dance floor, especially the pair in the center. The new Queen moved effortlessly, as though she had been born for this day. Their father's eyes glowed, and were, as they had been all day, fastened on his bride.

The song came to a close. All the dancers applauded, curtsying and bowing to each other first, then to the King and Anne. Harry was glad to see his father so happy, but part of him still struggled to like his new stepmother. There was no reason he shouldn't—Mary thought she was the kindest, most beautiful woman she had ever met; she was quite lovely and seemed perfectly capable of being a good wife to their father. Yet Anne wasn't his mother, and that part of Harry wanted more than anything to see Queen Katherine dancing with Henry. It was such a childish wish. He knew his mother was dead, and though he remembered how much she had loved him, Harry could not honestly say he remembered her very clearly beyond a great, beautiful, often distant lady.

A small hand tugged eagerly on the sleeve of his doublet. "Harry, let's dance," his sister said gleefully. "Please let's!"

Despite Lady Salisbury's lips grew even thinner in obvious disapproval, Harry closed his hand around Mary's and let her pull him eagerly away from the high table and onto the dance floor. Their father stood off to one side, chatting with his friend Charles Brandon; Anne and her sister lingered nearby, Anne's palm laying flat against Lady Carey's bodice. They were giggling as though they were Mary's age.

"Mama!" Mary waved her arm in Anne's direction. The word burst out of her with such force that Harry overcame the pain that accompanied the word. She needed someone to be her mother, and he was sure Katherine would agree. Anne glanced up, then seeing her stepdaughter, she grinned and waved back.

The musicians struck up the appropriate tune and a soft gasp swept through the hall. Harry knew they probably hadn't heard this kind of Spanish music in years, and couldn't help but steal a look at his father. For the first time all day, some of the King's joy left his face. His smile was suddenly strained. "Harry," she reprimanded him sharply, and he took her hands obediently again, falling into step a little clumsily. Mary had taught him and the majority of her ladies this dance proudly, but none of them had perfected it. As the royal children danced, a the tension dissipated—it was much livelier than any of the English or French varieties, and ultimately seemed to bring cheer back into the courtiers' hearts.

Everyone clapped heartily, especially the King, once the dance was finished. Mary ran to embrace the waiting Anne, who had knelt down to the little girl's level. Across the hall, Harry spotted a familiar face amongst Mary's maids of honor. Impulsively, he wound his way through the dancers to meet her.

"Lady Jane."

"Your Highness." Jane Seymour sunk into a respectful curtsy, as did the rest of the princess' ladies. They were almost all at least five years older than him—except, of course, for Jane.

He summoned all his courage and blurted out, "Wouldyoudomethehonorofdancingwithme?"

She blinked at him with her wide, honest blue eyes. He opened his mouth to repeat the question but then she smiled. His heart beat a little faster—she was quite lovely with her golden hair framing her face in the firelight. "Of course, Your Highness."

They danced around the perimeter of the floor, going more slowly and carefully, neither of them either graceful or experienced yet. "It looks as though your father really loves her," Jane observed, watching Henry and Anne lavish affection on her mistress.

"Yes," Harry agreed absently. Then, without anything else to say, he asked, "Have you been practicing your letters at Hatfield?"

She turned lightly pink. "Yes, Your Highness. Thank you."

Harry spun her around somewhat awkwardly, having trouble focusing on the proper steps. He leaned closer to her ear. "Just Harry," he reminded her. "Perhaps someday you will be able to write a long letter to me, then, my lady. I will look forward to receiving it." He knew he was still years away from getting married or even feeling anything, physically, for girls, but he was already drawn to Jane Seymour's sweetness. She had made an impression on him that had yet to fade.

"Perhaps I will…," she replied quietly. Her flush deepened, but as the song died, she squeezed Harry's hand and whispered, "Just Jane—please." Then she slipped her fingers out of his and scurried back to the other maids-of-honor, leaving him staring after her, already missing the gentle pressure of her hand in his.

* * *

The door shut behind the last of the courtiers who had witnessed the blessing of the marriage bed—the same bed, Anne supposed, in which her stepchildren had been conceived. Possibly where Henry had been conceived, too. Strangely, it didn't bother her to be sharing Katherine's bed. It felt almost like a blessing of its own—as though the late Queen approved of the new one. Not that she was technically the Queen yet. She would have a week or even two to enjoy being nothing more than Henry's wife, which was all she'd wanted all along.

Henry rolled onto his side, studying her. She had been a little sad to discard her elegant wedding gown and trade it for this elaborate concoction of silk and lace. Now, she was glad of it. The way his eyes moved over the contours of her body made her shiver.

He bent his head to kiss her. Anne ran one of her hand across his bare back, twisting a few locks of his dark hair around the fingers of her other hand. When they both had to breath, he tore himself away but only by an inch or two. Their breathing was suddenly heavy, their chests rising and falling in unison. "I won't hurt you," he breathed in her ear.

It seemed a little ominous to begin their first night together that way. "I trust you," she assured him, pulling him back down into another electrifying kiss. Henry slipped the delicate shoulders of her nightgown off her shoulders, trailing down her neck with his lips. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she closed her eyes, running her fingers through his hair. She sent a silent prayer to heaven, thanking God that she had found a man who would truly care for her and promising the woman who had sacrificed herself to give Henry such a precious gift that she would care for him and for his son and daughter, too.

"I love you, Henry," she whispered into the silence. Through her lowered lids, she saw him smile, and knew she had finally broken the spell.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note: **I'm so sorry this has taken me so long. I started college in August, and that ate up my life until the beginning of December…and afterwards I really wanted to get this up for you guys; you've been so patient and you've left me such encouraging reviews! The chapter is a little jumbled. I really had no idea where I was going with it until the end, really. That said, I hope it makes sense and that you all like it; I really don't know when another update is going to come.

I'd like to wish everyone a very happy holiday season-or Merry Christmas, as the case may be-and a safe and wonderful New Year! Thank you again for being patient. Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave me reviews and vote in my new poll!

* * *

**10 October**

Anne Boleyn stood alone in her bedchamber. The candles there burned low; the fire in the hearth had long since died. Her ladies were asleep, she supposed; one or two lay on pallets here on the floor, while the others had retreated to the chambers they shared, gossiping and giggling after another long day of stitching shirts for the poor, listening to bible verses and voicing their longing for the excitement of two months ago, when there had been feasting and jousting to accompany both the King's wedding and his wife's coronation a fortnight later. That day had indeed been glorious, at least in Henry's eyes. Anne closed her own. How they had cheered…

_The people lined the streets, five, six rows deep in many places. Fathers held up their children, who threw flowers which were trounced on by the king's guards and the horses in the procession. Anne herself had sat, alone, upon a gleaming golden litter. Her gown had been finer still than that she had been married in, delicate cloth-of-gold embroidered with gold thread and pearls…an impossibly dear creation which she wished had not been lavished on her. She had enough, basking in Henry's love for those two weeks, even if she had been forced to listen to him dream of the day she would be crowned his Queen, the day the people would prove to her that she would indeed be beloved…but Anne was already learning that she had sacrificed her own happiness-at least in public-when she had married him. Here she sat, feeling less beautiful and more foolish than Henry or her ladies would have had her believe, waving and beaming at the crowds as though this ridiculous ceremony was her choice._

_She could already head her critics, and there were indeed critics, despite the love of the people, complain about how she had tried to outdo their late Queen Katherine. She would have been just as quick to tell them that she had not wanted this, she vowed, before remembering that it was much too late for that. Though she had not wanted to be the Queen, she had agreed to marry Henry; he had rescued her from her overbearing father, offered her both love and security, and in turn she had given him…everything._

_For those first two weeks, it had been more than worth the sacrifice. Even now, on her litter, Anne could picture him, riding somewhere behind her, thinking of the days and nights they spent together, laughing or singing or dancing-by themselves or with her ladies-or attempting to write poetry, or lying in each other's arms, simply Henry and Anne…_

She bit her lip hard, and as her teeth sliced through the thin flesh, her bottom lip was stained crimson. She winced slightly and shook her head as though that would drive away the fantasy. That had been, of course, an unrealistic and brief reality. How foolish of her to even hope that it may last. Henry was the King, and though she had heard her father and uncle discuss how Wolsey did the brunt of his work, he still had duties that he needed to attend to. He could not spend all his time with her. And yet he had gone from doing just that to spending woefully little with her at all.

Until her coronation, it seemed, Henry had come to Anne's bed frequently, almost every other night. Their lovemaking had been slow, gentle, beautiful-he had learned her body as he would learn a new instrument, and his touch had thrilled her. Now, he came to her bed perhaps once a week. He slaked his own desire far more quickly, though he peppered their coupling with her name, and groaned "sweethearts" or "my loves."

Once he had not even remained till morning, but rather had kissed her and bade her good-night.

That had been the first night she had truly wept, but not the last. Her sister had been renowned as Francis' "English mare," and surely knew many sexual tricks to entice a man, but Anne was not so naïve that she could not make Henry's visits worth it…was she? And had he not professed his love so sincerely and constantly for so long before their marriage?

It was not simply the lack of a bedmate that saddened, even confused her. He visited her rarely, too. They ate together nearly every night, but she found that she had little to say to him. After he asked about her day and she answered-always the same answer-their meal would fade into silence. She knew they had much in common, especially a love of fine music, so Anne could not understand this, either. Had Henry, who had lavished so much upon her so soon after their meeting, tired of her already? Would he, perhaps, put her aside in hopes of finding a more interesting or more politically advantageous bride? He could not hope to find a more popular one, but then, she was only popular because the people knew that he loved her so dearly. Or at least they thought they knew.

Anne spent her days wondering if Henry would come. Would he ask that she accompany him on a walk in the gardens? Would he come to her bed that night and stay, simply holding her after the lovemaking was done, murmuring about the future, as they had done before? Or had that all simply been a dream? Perhaps Henry had only loved the idea of having Anne and now that it was real, he found that he was not nearly as interested. Or perhaps she could not compare to Katherine as he had hoped she would. She had believed that that first night had finally broken the dead woman's hold on his heart, but what if she had overestimated her own abilities?

She opened her eyes again, slowly. A shadowy, thin face stared back at her in the mirror. In the dim light, her hair seemed part of the shadows themselves and her eyes, such a bright blue in the day, appeared black. She did not look like a queen. She was not the beautiful Guinevere, who had tempted Lancelot towards sin; she was not even as lovely as Katherine, the little Spanish princess with red-gold hair and rosy cheeks. She did not feel much like a queen either.

Her slender hands strayed across where the soft linen nightgown fell smoothly over her abdomen. It remained flat; there had not been even a hint of a curve. She had menstruated just a week ago. And if Henry came so seldom to her bed, it was unlikely any of that would change.

Would she be a woman whose beauty, what beauty she had, was accentuated by pregnancy, as her sister was? Would her cheeks glow, her eyes sparkle? Or would she, perhaps, simply look weighed down by her rounded stomach, uncomfortable, impatient? She was beginning to doubt that she would know any time soon.

But why should she wait for her husband to come to her?

A sudden idea materialized in Anne's mind. She was not a child. Her happiness, while it did correlate with her new husband's actions, did not solely depend on them. She could take a hand in her own fate, as she had when she had fled from court and written to Tom. Now, though, she was not under her father's yoke. She was freer-and in some ways, less free-than she had been as simply Lady Anne Boleyn. Now she was the Duchess of Pembroke, the Queen of England. She should not lie there at night like a helpless girl.

She glanced around. The room was as still and dark as before. Her ladies here would sleep peacefully; they would never know anything was amiss.

Plucking her dressing gown from the bed where it lay abandoned, she shrugged it over her nightgown and slipped out of the room. The chambers beyond were silent and cold. She shivered. Yet her feet knew where to go, even when she stepped beyond the threshold of the renovated Queen's Chambers and into the corridors beyond. They carried her faithfully through the darkness, following the well-beaten path to the King's Chambers, Henry's chambers….she passed no one on the way. It seemed all the rest of Whitehall slept at this hour. No wife was standing, gazing upon her own reflection, wondering what faults she had that would discourage her husband from loving her as he claimed to… All were asleep and dreaming. Only Anne, the Queen, crept through the gloom as though she were a child hoping for a late night bit of food.

When she arrived, she was surprised but glad to see that no guard stood watching the door. She did not want to be bowed to or announced. She slid the door open and slipped within. A dying fire still crackled half-heartedly here, outside of his bedchamber. She wondered how long he had postponed his own sleep.

Perhaps he, too, had been lonely, she thought. Had Henry remembered that he now had a wife whose company he could keep at night? She would have welcomed him during the day with open arms, but the privacy of the night-it was their time. It brought her solace. She already missed those blissful conversations, half-whispered, which she knew would never go beyond the walls of her bedchamber. Or perhaps-of his…

Anne moved towards the doorway to where her husband slept. She peered ahead anxiously, hoping she would not tread on some poor unsuspecting manservant guarding His Majesty even in sleep…

No. She tripped over no sleeping body on the floor. The moonlight which streamed weakly in through the windows illuminated only Henry. He lay on his back, clad only in a shirt and loose trousers. Anne smiled. Instead of for the poor, she ought to make a few shirts for him someday soon. These, perhaps by Katherine's loving hand, looked well-worn.

"Henry…" His name slipped unbidden from her lips. She approached the bed, watching him stir and turn slightly. A smile lingered on her lips as she perched on the side of his bed, making him groan softly in his sleep and shift again, towards her this time. Anne reached out a hand. The pads of her fingers ran feather-light over his jaw, his chin…his lips. He stirred again, muttering something… Then his eyes opened. Anne stared into them, grey-blue eyes though they were colorless now. His brows knitted together.

"Anne?" he asked groggily. Judging by his tone, he could hardly believe she was there.

Her smile grew. "I have missed you," she replied. He still looked somewhat confused, perhaps still surprised, the sleep still clouding his mind. Finally, that expression was replaced with-with what? Guilt? Anne supposed that it was possible that he really [i]had[/i] been too busy to come to her and that he felt bad that he had not managed the frequency of his visits to his new bride more fairly.

"I-I have missed…you as well, sweetheart," Henry said, trying to sit up, his words cut short by a yawn he could not stifle.

She did not really believe him. They had, after all, seen each other at dinner and perhaps that was enough for Henry. Perhaps after their rushed courtship, their post-marital bliss had been bound to be rushed as well. But Anne was tired of waiting for him to make up his mind. She hovered over him, one arm on either side of his body. Even now, having missed him and been upset over his absence, Anne wondered how she could ever have dreamed of marrying Tom Wyatt. Tom was sweet and good where Henry was dangerous; Tom was devoted where Henry was, well, sometimes lax. But she did not love Tom like she did Henry; the intensity was missing. She did not mind being Queen as much as she had feared-the loneliness was in truth her only complaint. The attention, the bowing and scraping, could be a little disconcerting, but after the wedding and coronation, the courtiers had found other things to gossip about and other young women to gawk at.

"Henry…" His name was little more than a breath as she lowered her head; suddenly her lips caught his. Then Henry's arm came around her, turning them both until Anne's back was against the mattress. He broke the kiss, now kneeling in front of her, and she could see that he looked quite awake.

"Anne…my Anne…"

This time, his lips were on her, devouring her. One of his hands roamed over her body, pushing the thin fabric away from her slim frame, leaving trails of fire on her skin. Her pulse raced. Both of them seemed to gasp for breath when they parted again before diving headlong into another kiss. Whatever reasons he might have had for staying away before were absent now, and as the shadows lengthened, the two of them were reunited and became, again, as one.

**11 October**

Those gentlemen who served His Majesty had been very surprised indeed to find that when he rose, he was accompanied by his wife. None of them, not even the older ones who had served under his father, could remember a time when the Queen had come to the King's apartment. It was, after all, the King who deemed when it was proper to share his wife's bed-when he had the time, the energy, and of course the desire. They said nothing, of course, but Henry suspected, by the looks on their faces, that the word of Anne's boldness would spread like wildfire through the court.

As for Anne herself, she looked quite satisfied. They returned to her rooms for breakfast. Her dressing gown was tied securely around her and, her arm tucked securely in his, she held her head high, as though challenging his menservants as well as the few courtiers they passed along the way to challenge her or her choices. He enjoyed seeing this side of her. She had remained reluctant to be his Queen even after they had been married, though she had tried to disguise her discomfort for his sake. It seemed to him that now, she was finally accepting that she was, indeed, the Queen of England and that she had to answer to no one save for him and God. He smiled.

It was true that he had not come to her as often as either of them would have liked, not since the first blissful weeks following the grand Westminster ceremony. Henry had claimed that business had kept him away, and while he had been busy, Henry knew as well as anyone that Wolsey was more than willing to take care of most of his affairs, and perfectly capable of doing so.

But he could not possibly admit to his wife the true reason.

He still struggled to forget Katherine. Of course, he had no doubt that she would want him to be happy and want their children to have both a mother and a father. It was not that he felt guilty about being unfaithful to her memory. It was that he could not forget how she had suffered, nor the pain her death had caused him. He could not overcome the guilt of having killed her. He loved his daughter Mary very much, but Katherine had struggled with pregnancies after his birth, and Henry should have known that even if another child of theirs was born healthy, the same may not be true for the mother. He had never been unfaithful to his wife, yet he almost wished that he had-had slaked his lust on some unimportant girl, so that she might have lived.

Henry had no way of knowing whether Anne, with her good English blood, would be stronger than Katherine or if her body, too, would fail. He was sure only that he feared she too might prove weak. He burned for her, it was true, in a way that he had never for Katherine, but he had thought of his last Queen, of her pallor, of the fire which had consumed her, and he had stayed away. He had two children and had no need of more. Yet last night had proved that neither he nor Anne He dreaded the news, which would surely come, that she was carrying his child.

Looking at Anne now, he could not help but wonder what she would prefer. There were some courtiers who dreaded pregnancy, as it meat that they could not participate as fully in court life; they could not dance nor flaunt their figures in their finest gowns for fear of harming their child, but he was sure she did not possess that kind of vanity. He knew, as much as he wished it was not so, that Anne would delight in bearing a child, given the way she always interacted with Mary. He could only imagine how she would be have towards a son or daughter of her own, an infant who was half of her rather than of Katherine, even if she did not resent his first wife for being the Queen who had borne the heir to the throne rather than herself. Of course, she would not mind that, not Anne, who had told him many times by now that but for Henry's love, she would never have agreed to become Queen.

He tried to imagine Anne's abdomen growing month by month, tried to imagine the joy in her eyes when she told him first of her pregnancy, then of the child's quickening within her womb. He thought of her drawing Mary close and the delight in her voice as she told her little stepdaughter that in a few months she would have a new brother or sister. He even tried to picture the jousts and fireworks and feasts that would greet the birth of a new Prince or Princess. Yet Katherine's clammy, grey face pushed aside these happier scenarios.

Could Henry bear to kneel beside Anne's deathbed as well, stroking her forehead and clutching her hand as though he could keep her soul from slipping away? As dear as Mary was to him, what man-what King-would have willingly sacrificed his wife for a daughter?

Anne had stopped walking. He looked up, half-surprised to see that they had already arrived at her apartments. He turned to try and smile at her. She was quite alive and here beside him now, and if that same horror that had befallen his first marriage lay in their future, now was not the time to dwell on it. Yet her brow had furrowed slightly, and she reached up to touch his cheek.

"Henry," she murmured, "promise me…will you promise…"

The worry in her blue eyes drove away his own fears. Henry brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips gently. "Anything, sweetheart. You need only ask."

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. Then she finally said, "I have done nothing to upset you, have I?"

"Sweetheart, why would you ever think such a thing?" Henry was tempted to laugh, but he realized that she feared that his reluctance to visit her bed had something to do with her, as though she had some fault that made her undesirable or had angered him. Had he not told her time and again that she was flawless in his eyes? Nothing, he believed, that Anne ever did would upset him, save for her own death, and he dearly hoped that Anne outlived him ad became the Queen Dowager someday.

"Then please promise me you will not stay away." Anne still sounded somewhat hesitant.

As he was unwilling to share the cause of his distress, Henry had no true reason to deny her this simple request. He cupped her cheek and smiled. There was a forlorn look about her, his own sweetheart, and he could not have that. The fact that she may conceive a child was a risk that he was willing to take if it meant assuring her happiness. He could not live with himself if he thought that Anne was lonely on his account, and that was clearly the case now. It was something that would have to be remedied.

"I promise," he said firmly.

Her warm smile was the only thanks he needed.

* * *

"She went to _his_ bed?"

The Princess Margaret had remained at Court, most unhappily, weeks after the coronation of the new Queen. While she avoided her second sister-in-law as best she could, it still grated on her nerves to have to curtsy and defer to a woman who was not only younger than she, but of far less noble birth-a commoner, in fact! Almost all the other courtiers, from what Margaret could tell, were enamored with the lovely Queen Anne; she heard them sing her praises everywhere-her graciousness, her beauty, her intelligence, her charity. She ran a modest and godly household, it was said; she championed several young women of lower birth than was typical for a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England. She and her women sewed shirts not only for His Majesty, but garments for the poor as well.

To put it mildly, the King's sister was tired of listening to Anne's virtues. She dearly wished that she would have an establishment of her own to which she could retreat before the Queen became pregnant, but given that all her brother's attention was now devoted to his bride, she could not imagine that he would spare her a thought, certainly not to gift her with a royal house in the country.

Nor, she thought bitterly, to find her another husband.

As detestable as she had found the match with the King of Portugal, Margaret's fears about dying as an old maid had now returned to her. Anne Boleyn was not the only pretty face about Court, younger and doubtless more desirable as a wife than she. The only person in England who had shown her any interest at all was the insufferable Charles Brandon, and she knew that Henry would likely rather see her in her grave than see her wed to a man like Brandon, even if he was a dear friend and now Duke of Suffolk. The injustice of this stung, though Margaret was not sure she would be able to live with Brandon as his wife, since a year before, the Queen could only fashion herself "Lady Anne" by virtue of her Howard blood.

This new information about Anne intrigued her, however. She had gone to the King's chambers at night, too impatient and insolent to wait for His Majesty to visit her bed. Had Henry truly lost interest in her so quickly? It was said that he had visited her less often than usual for the past few weeks, but that the workload presented to him was heavier than usual and that he had chosen to attend to some of it himself though Wolsey of course could have taken care of all of it for him.

"That is the rumor, Your Highness." The lady who had brought the matter up looked quite satisfied with herself.

Katherine, Margaret noted, had been a model Queen. She had done nothing that went against protocol. Apart from her Spanish birth, not a soul in England could have found anything to complain about when it came to the saintly Katherine, who had given birth to a healthy Prince of Wales within the first two years of her marriage. No matter how dearly she wished that Henry would come to her, Margaret was sure that the late Queen would not have deemed it fitting to go to his bed. It was simply not done.

Part of her almost admired Anne for doing something so bold. Few other women would have thought to so blatantly ignore tradition and taken matters into her own hands. Another part, a larger part, chose to see it as evidence that Anne's low birth made her a poor candidate for a royal consort, whose self-control ought to have exceeded her impatience.

"Do you know how the King reacted?" Margaret could not help but ask.

The lady looked thrilled that her information was proving both interesting and valuable to her mistress. "I heard, my lady, that His Majesty was amused by the Queen's determination. He is said to have made a jest of his own desirability." A few of the women tittered, though whether out of agreement or derision Margaret was not sure.

If Henry had been amused, that meant that he had surely welcomed his wife with open arms despite her unconventional behavior. That meant, she assumed, that he had yet to truly tire of her, which was unsurprising save that his behavior in previous weeks had indicated, at least to her, otherwise. Why else would he not have visited Anne's bed? Why else would she have been driven to seek him out? She knew that her brother was fond of women and that, had he not loved Katherine so dearly, he would likely have exercised his right as King and taken numerous ladies of the court to his bed. Anne, Margaret had to admit, was truly lovely, and she could not fathom why Henry would have denied himself the pleasure of a wife's warm and loving arms after all this time.

"-that the King fears a child may be the death of her," one of the other women said quietly, shaking Margaret from her thoughts. All of them suddenly looked quite serious. Most remembered the heavy toll Katherine's death had taken on His Majesty.

So that was the reason. Henry was reluctant to bed Anne because he did not want her to share Katherine's fate. He did not want to get her with child, despite the fact that bearing children for one's husband was the duty of any wife, particularly the wife of a King. It was absolutely foolish for Henry to think such a thing and yet Margaret could not help but feel sorry for her brother. She recalled him locking himself away five and a half years ago, his eyes red and his voice hoarse, allowing few to see him. When he finally admitted his sister, it was only to ask her to look after "the girl," the infant daughter who was left motherless and all but fatherless in her first day of life.

She wondered if Anne knew of this. In her sister-in-law's position, Margaret would prefer to live in ignorance.

**23 October**

Having a new mother was nothing at all like what the Princess Mary had thought it would be. Since her stepmother's wedding, she had not been invited to Court once, and would likely not be until Christmastide in nearly two months. Her father had not come to see her, either, nor had her new Mama. In fact, not even Harry had paid her a visit. The little girl was beginning to feel somewhat forlorn. She asked often why no one paid her visits anymore. "Salisbury," she would say, "has Papa forgotten about me now?"

"Your father the King is a very busy man, Your Highness," Lady Salisbury would always reply. She did not mention that a man who had been presumably celibate since months before Mary had even been born was unlikely to concern himself much with a five-year-old girl when he now had a lovely young wife in his bed. Her young mistress, who so idolized the new Queen as well as her father, would never understand that they were too preoccupied with each other and the business of making a child-the business of any monarch and his consort-to pay much attention to Katherine's small daughter.

Mary was not a flighty girl. She was, in fact, quite studious; she paid close attention to her studies and her needlework. Her intensity at times worried her governess, who had never seen a child work as hard as Mary did, not at Mary's tender age. She was already nearly fluent in French and Latin, her embroidery was flawless, if simplistic…

She was a gifted girl, to say the least. The late Queen would surely have been proud of her, and there was no reason the King should not be…except that, even now, he rarely wrote and asked of her progress. He sent her gifts, of course, and wrote letters encouraging her to be a good and obedient girl, but he never asking whether she was a model student, what her strengths were…he seemed to care only that his daughter knew that he cared for her. He showed that he cared through gifts and affection, but had yet to display at interest in whether Mary was going to be a model Princess and make a fine bride someday or not. Lady Salisbury did not pretend to know why; she would never presume to know how her sovereign lord's mind worked.

The day was cooler than usual for this time of year. It was a dull, grey morning and the dawn seemed to have come later than usual. It was a day that promised to be dismal. Rain seemed imminent. Yet that was not uncommon in the English countryside, and Salisbury paid little mind to it. She went about her household tasks as usual, preparing for her mistress' breakfast, ordering the maids-of-honor about, getting things in order…

Except that it was nearly noon, and the Princess had yet to wake. Lady Salisbury paused as she cleared away breakfast. It was unusual for Mary not to be punctual, even if she was only five.

"Mistress Seymour!" she snapped. The fair girl did not deserve the sharp tone, but Salisbury was already on edge, wondering why she had not heard anything from Mary all morning, why the ladies had said nothing…had they not been curious? They were sworn to serve her, so why had not one questioned the fact that she was not awake?

Jane's head snapped up. She was trying to practice her letters. They were still clumsy, but much better than they had been a few months ago, thanks to her mistress' diligence, and Jane's own determination to impress the Prince of Wales. In her mind, she could not help but think of him as simply "Harry," and occasionally she had accidentally referred to him that way in front of Mary, but the Princess, who naturally thought of her brother as Harry as well, had not noticed. She wanted to send him that letter someday, even if it was years after he had forgotten her.

"My lady?" she asked in her small voice, setting aside the paper and scrambling to her feet.

"Please wake Her Highness and tell her that she is not to sleep so late in the future," Salisbury said, and this time her voice was more nervous than it was hard. It shook in a way that Jane had never heard from the venerable woman before.

Jane curtsied. "Yes, my lady…" She was not exactly sure of the time. The light had been poor all morning. She did know, however, that Lady Salisbury had known Mary for nearly the girl's entire life, and if she sounded worried, perhaps there was truly something to fear. Her stomach tied itself into knots as she approached Mary's bedchamber. It was silent and nearly empty, save for the occupant of the bed. Little Princess Mary lay there, her covers thrown off, still and pale. Her hair was plastered to her brow. She looked tiny and helpless in her nightgown.

Something was clearly very wrong. Jane nearly tripped over her feet as she ran to Mary's side. "Your Highness-wake up. You must! My lady Princess…" She had danced with the Prince of Wales, but Jane could not bring herself to reach out and shake Mary by the shoulders. To touch her at all… "Your Highness!" Yet despite the note of panic in Jane's voice, pitched unnaturally high, Mary did not stir.

The poor girl looked around frantically for someone to help her. "Lady Salisbury!" she cried. "Come quickly!"

She thought of Queen Anne and how she had cradled Mary, stroking her dark hair and telling her stories; she thought of the King, who had called Mary his pearl and smiled at her as Jane's own father never had at her. Most of all, though, she thought of Harry. The handsome boy who adored his sister…it was for him more than for her mistress that Jane prayed when she fell to her knees beside Mary's bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and clasped her hands tightly together. _Please, God. Do not take her away from Harry…_

Lady Salisbury's footfalls were heavy. She moved around Jane, throwing herself onto the bed. "My lady-my lady-" she pleaded. Her voice trembled more violently than it had before, and she touched Mary's face to find it damp and clammy. She sucked in her breath so sharply it chilled Jane to the very core.

More maids-of-honor came behind her, all peering around each other, whispering, fretting…a few even joined Jane on their knees, bowing their heads in prayer. Yet none of their voices, nor any of their silent, fervent prayers, could drown out Lady Salisbury's tearful cries of, "Mary, Mary!" She had gathered the Princess into her arms; Mary groaned softly, but her eyes remained closed and her head lolled against her governess' shoulder. Salisbury wept openly. She held the girl, Jane thought, too distracted to continue her requests of the Lord, as though she was her own daughter. It was touching, yet heartbreaking. Perhaps this was simply a childhood ailment that would pass in a few days…but perhaps not. None of them, at that moment, knew what Mary's fate would be. She was a princess, yes, but she was also a little girl, and Jane realized that her family would not be the only ones to grieve. Salisbury, the woman who had raised her, had as much right to these tears as Harry or the King.

They could only hope that the Lord was, as everyone said, merciful and that he spared not only Mary but the royal family-and Lady Salisbury as well.

* * *

The messenger, a young man very red in the face, found the King and Queen walking in the gardens. His arm was around her; she was laughing at some joke he had just made. They were a handsome couple indeed, and it both frightened and dismayed the peasant-born boy to intrude upon their happiness. The young Princess' father had a right and a duty to know of his daughter's condition, yet why must it be him to tell him? King Henry's temper was infamous, but the depth of his grief was known to all his subjects as well. Who knew what this news would do when his joy had been so recently restored? He had half a mind to walk away, though he knew he could do no such thing and that the King would hear of his daughter's illness in some manner no matter what he did.

Yet Henry caught sight of him and any thoughts he had of slinking silently away were gone. "Don't just stand there, come forward. I don't bite," the King called, chuckling.

The young man bowed. His hands shook as he held out the letter from Lady Salisbury, the Princess' governess, the woman who had been almost recognizable when she had ordered him to go to Court, face tear-stained and red.

"Your Majesties," he mumbled, "I c-come with urgent news from Hatfield…the Princess Mary has been taken ill…"

The Queen's eyes, blue like summer skies, widened. She placed a hand on her husband's arm, the one that was not outstretched to take the letter, but he did not seem to hear the messenger nor to feel his lady's touch. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the parchment in his had. As he read, his face contorted into a look of horror. His grip slackened, and the letter fell. To the young man from Hatfield, just a country boy, a farmer's son, it was a truly awful sight to behold: the King living out a nightmare.

The last thing he expected was for Henry to step forward and seize his collar. He choked and coughed, but the King did not let go.

"Henry," the Queen said, sounding truly alarmed, "you'll strangle him!"

Her words did not move the King, who growled, "Find Dr. Linacre! He is to go to Hatfield at once-he is to save my child!" He shoved the young man back. He stumbled and barely managed to bow properly, wondering what price he-or the royal physician-might pay if the Princess should die.

Anne watched as Henry's rage faded into wracking sobs. His body shook. He did not, however, go to her for support. He did not even look at her. He simply stood there in the middle of the path, staring at something Anne could not see-some dreadful possible future. The anger and sorrow and hopelessness that had remained within him for so long after Katherine's death, the very things Anne had believed she had rid her husband of once and for all, appeared to be welling up to the surface again. Her heart ached. Would this always fester? Would he be haunted forever by losing someone he loved? She had lost her mother, and though of course she had been very young, she had not let it embitter her. Poor Prince Harry, who had been five, was braver about losing Katherine than his father. It was a sad truth, yet one that appeared unshakeable.

She, too, was worried about her stepdaughter's health. She cared very deeply for little Mary and knew how fond Mary was of her. Yet children by their very nature fell ill. Mary's royal blood did not make her immune. Anne feared what was coming over Henry now-already too intense for what may be a mild and brief sickness, for all they knew-was just a prelude to what might happen if Mary should actually die.

"Henry…" she said cautiously, taking a few steps towards him. "I am sure that Mary is fine. She is in capable hands. Lady Salisbury is a good woman."

It was clear to her at once that her words meant little to him, if he heard them at all. His hands were clenched into fists, as though he could fight back Mary's illness from miles away, as though illness was something that ought never have taunted the King of England a second time. Anne was frightened for his sake-frightened that her earlier conclusion was being proven very wrong; she had not broken Katherine's hold on Herny…or perhaps it did not belong to Katherine at all. Everyone knew that when Prince Arthur had died, Henry the Seventh had been very protective of his surviving son, an experience she doubted he had enjoyed; and he had lost his mother at nearly the same time. And the Katherine…

Anne wished that her love was enough. She wished that she could heal him. But if it was more than the ghost of his former wife haunting him, she did not know what to do.

The King turned his face to the sky, as if to address God directly. "Katherine-my poor Katherine-died so that she could live! Her life was traded for the child's! Do not take her from me too. Oh, God…do not take her from me…"

"Henry, my love…" Anne stepped forward to put her arms around the sobbing King. He did not shake her off, at least, but she suspected that his mind was far away at Hatfield, wondering from which ailment his daughter was suffering and whether or not God would bless her with renewed health. She, too, found it difficult to imagine the vibrant young Princess laid low by any ill, but she had more faith. It was likely that Mary would recover quickly, as children often did, those who lived past their infancy and then their first few tender years. Mary would recover-she must. Just as her stepmother had had to accept the King's proposal, despite her own misgivings, for England's sake, Mary must recover-for the sake of her father, and by that token, for England.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **This chapter, which I started just before Christmas (if you can't tell) more or less wrote itself. I had a vague idea of where it was going to go, and then…well, it didn't. It went here instead. I hope everyone is satisfied and that your appetite is slated for a while, anyway, because I have no idea what I'm going to do for the next chapter. It may be a time jump of a few months or a few years, depending on where it decides it wants to take me. If you have any particularly compelling ideas, let me know in a review or private message! As always, thanks for sticking with me in this, guys. :)

Another quick note: some inspiration for this chapter comes from the brilliant ReganX.

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**20 December**

"Mama, you tell the best stories. Will you tell me the story of the Nativity?"

Princess Mary tilted her face up. It was pale and thinner than it had once been. The shadows beneath her big blue eyes were darker. Yet though Anne could feel her bones a little more sharply when she held the girl close, she was simply glad to be able to hold her at all. Her illness, which had come upon her so suddenly, had not been fatal as Henry had feared it would be, but nor had she recovered as quickly as Anne had hoped. There was a fighter inside the little girl, though, and a fortnight after the good Mistress Seymour had discovered her lying in bed in a cold sweat, Mary had been strong enough to walk about with Lady Salisbury. Now it was Christmastide, and it seemed to everyone, including Dr. Linacre, that she had made a full and remarkable recovery.

Anne smiled fondly at her stepdaughter. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. Dear little Mary-she did not want to hear of fairies or magical creatures, but rather of the birth of the Christ child. It was unsurprising, however; Katherine had reportedly been wholly devoted to God. Anne herself was pious, though she would hardly call herself a good Catholic woman, and she could appreciate Mary's interest.

"Very well," she agreed. "A very long time ago, in a land called Nazareth, there lived a beautiful young woman named Mary. She was kind and obedient and loved her family very much, but she loved God best of all. Mary was in love with a man called Joseph, who was a carpenter—"

"Was he handsome, Mama?" Mary asked earnestly, and Anne laughed softly. It seemed that this was enough like a fairy story for her to want to know such details.

"I suppose he must have been. Well, Mary intended to marry Joseph the carpenter when one day an angel appeared to her. God, the angel said, had chosen Mary for a very special duty; she had been chosen because she was such a loving, pure girl. This task was truly a singular blessing: God wanted her to bear His son. And though Mary was confused and even frightened, she agreed to do whatever God asked of her. She was still afraid of what would happen when her family discovered her secret, but God strengthened her and gave her courage. When she went to tell Joseph that she was going to have a child, at first he was angry and did not believe her story. He no longer wanted to marry her, because he thought she was untrue. But that night Joseph had a dream. He dreamed of an angel, one who told him that he should take Mary's word as the word of God, and that the child she bore was to be called Jesus…"

Her stepdaughter's head turned. Anne paused in her story and raised her head. Henry stood there in the doorway. He had a small, contented smile on his face and she suspected he had been there for several minutes now. She smiled back at him, and released Mary, who bounded over to him with open arms.

"Papa!" she cried, giggling as he scooped her up. "Will Harry be here soon, Papa? Will he be done with lessons and enjoy Christmastide with us?"

Henry frowned solemnly at her. "You must be patient, my girl. Harry is busy learning how to be a wise King someday," he said, and yet both he and Mary struggled to keep straight faces

It warmed Anne's heart to see them together. Henry may not have shown his love to Mary for the first five years of her life, but his love for her ran deep. Anne knew just how deep. She did not want to think about what might have happened if Dr. Linacre and Lady Salisbury's diligence, nor to remember the pitiful creature her husband had been during those two weeks: by turns distraught, angry or cold. She had done all she could to distract him or at lease soothe his fears. It earned her no gratitude. In fact, he had turned on her a fair few times until Anne simply stopped bothering. Had she indeed died, Anne shuddered to think what kind of a person he would have become.

Though she looked disappointed for a moment, Mary forged ahead. "Mama was just telling me about the Nativity and baby Jesus…Mama's sister just had a baby!" She craned her neck to look at her stepmother, seeking confirmation that her words were true.

Anne got to her feet. She smoothed the skirt of her day dress, conscious as always that she did not look much like a Queen. Though there were a fair few people at Court who were not as fond of her as Henry might have liked, people who tried to make her acutely aware of the relatively unimportant background from which she came, most people were respectful and made her somewhat more confident that someday she would not feel so out of place as Henry's consort.

"She did indeed, but her baby was a girl and not a boy," Anne said. "Mary knew from the beginning that the child she carried was a boy, the son of God."

This talk saddened her a little. While she hardly envied the mother of God, whose circumstance had been quite different than her own and with whom it would be sinful to compare herself, she did envy her sister. Mary had not yet resumed her duties in Anne's household. In fact, she was no longer at Court at all, but in the country. Anne half-wished to be in her place. Sir William was thrilled with his lovely little daughter and so was Mary. They may not have been in love, nor were they particularly wealthy though Anne's own good fortune had of course benefited her brother and sister, yet she believed they were truly happy. And Christ's mother had been quite poor herself, as had her husband, yet on the occasion or two that Anne had imagined the Lord's childhood, she fancied them as happy as well.

She, however, was the Queen of England. Her husband adored her, yet he was constantly busy. They lived predominately apart and saw each other only when time permitted them to. There would never be a quaint country home or a two-room house filled with children, where they would have to hold each other close to keep warm. Anne had no wish for poverty—only for happiness.

"What about you, Mama?" Mary demanded, breaking Anne's reverie.

Henry looked strangely uncomfortable. He set Mary on her feet before she could finish her question and put a hand on the top of her head. She pouted and looked up at her parents, at once disappointed and confused. "Mistress Saville, will you see that the Princess Mary arrives safely back in her apartments?" Henry called.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Nan murmured, rising from her place by the hearth.

"But Papa—"

"Henry, it is Christmastide—"

"Lady Salisbury must have you looking as beautiful as possible for dinner," Henry cut across both his wife and daughter. He stepped back, allowing Nan Saville to curtsy and simultaneously take Mary's little hand. The child cast an appealing look at her stepmother, but Anne could only smile. She would finish the tale another time, when Henry would be unlikely to come interrupt them. Neither of them resented his presence, but he was, of course, the center of attention whenever he was in a room: it was only natural. He was the King, after all.

When Mary was gone, he stepped forward to take her in his arms; she accepted the embrace, leaning against his strong body, her cheek against his shoulder. "She is entirely too curious for her own good," he muttered darkly, stroking Anne's loose hair with one hand.

"She is a child. All children dream of the future, Henry. She knows that someday she will be a wife, a mother…"

She felt his muscles stiffen slightly and she bit her lip. It was true that someday Mary would be someone's wife, and as such she would be expected to bear him children. That was the way of things, especially for royal girls. He could not deny her that and make her a spinster, an old maid. His father had already done that to the Princess Margaret, ad from what Anne could tell, her sister-in-law was a bitter and lonely woman. Mary would not necessarily fall prey to the same fate that took the life of her mother. It was only natural that he should fear for her health so soon after she had recovered from an alarming illness, but to worry about the day when she would bear children…

That was a very long way off, however. Anne was in truth more concerned about her own, more immediate future. It was her duty, too, to provide Henry with children. While it was unlikely anything would happen to Harry before he could take his father's throne, and as unwilling as she was to provide "competition" to her young stepson, the fact remained that things happened that were indeed beyond their control. Henry could use a second heir. It was expected of her.

"My love…you will not be cross with me, will you, if I desire to give you one of your Christmas gifts earlier than expected?" Anne whispered, her lips nearly against Henry's ear.

The movement made him shudder slightly. He tightened his grip. "Of course not."

She shifted slightly in his arms, closing one of her hands over his. He tried to lace their fingers together, but Anne resolutely moved their joined hands until she could place Henry's palm against the bodice of her gown. She pressed it there, lifting her eyes to meet this, which were blank and unreadable. It made her nervous, but she was determined to say this. She had been meaning to for nearly a week, yet between the arrival of her stepdaughter, the feasts and the informal gift-giving, she had not had the opportunity. The words had simply floated inside her mind, waiting for the chance to be voiced. She did not know why she was so nervous—she simply was.

"I…I am with child, Henry. I am going to have a baby," she told him, staring hopefully into his face. It was a frozen mask. That frightened her. She had seen how precious Henry's children were to him and she knew how much he loved her. Surely he would love a child created between them.

Childbirth was dangerous, yes, of course…but Anne desperately hoped that Henry's grief over Katherine's death, which had almost consumed him when they learned of Mary's illness, would not turn into paranoia for her own sake. Her desire to be a mother had never been as strong as it was now; learning, almost a week before, that she was indeed pregnant had been a relief. It had reprieved her from her feelings of emptiness and loneliness. Now, even when she could not see her husband, she carried their child within her, and though it would be months before she felt it quicken, its mere presence comforted her. No matter how much agony she would suffer bringing it into the world, she knew the effort would be worth it. Like her sister, she would have an infant to cradle in her arms, and whether she produced a Duke of York or a beautiful little Princess did not make a difference in the joy she felt thinking that she would truly be someone's mama.

He remained silent and still, and Anne's stomach suddenly soured. Even if he was angry or frightened, it would be better than this. She resisted the urge to twist out of his grasp, saying instead, "I missed my courses again this month, and we called for Dr. Linacre days ago…I am sorry that I did not tell you earlier, but we have all been so busy…"

"No…no, I am happy for you. For us," Henry said slowly. His voice had a strange far-away quality, and his expression was still unreadable. Anne had the distinct feeling that he was looking through her rather than at her, but she preferred even these distant words to the stony silence of before. He leaned down and kissed her very briefly, a kiss she accepted with a tiny, disbelieving smile. He did not sound particularly happy…but she would give him the benefit of the doubt and choose to believe that his sorrow over Katherine's death was again overwhelming him. He was not afraid—he was simply sad.

Henry let go of her quite suddenly. "We will not make an official announcement until the child has quickened, of course," he said, not quite meeting her gaze.

"Of course not," Anne agreed softly.

Everyone knew that not all children were carried to term, though Dr. Linacre had cheerfully assured her that she was quite healthy and would likely have a fairly uncomplicated pregnancy. She had been ill in the mornings, and often still was, but that was the only true "complication" which she had faced so far, despite being barely two months along. There was still a chance, however, that something would go wrong before—or even after—the child quickened.

"But what about the children? May we tell them?" she asked as he turned to go.

Even Anne's ladies were watching anxiously now. They had rejoiced with their mistress when she had learned of her condition and all of them had giggled with each other and predicted that the King would be thrilled to hear the news. Clearly they had overestimated his enthusiasm, and now many of them looked fretful. The King was not thrilled. He almost seemed confused, as though there were several emotions raging within him and he could not decide which he ought to display.

Henry had stopped halfway to the door. He did not turn back to look at Anne again. "Tell the children whenever you like. I am sure Mary will want to know." And then he was gone, practically storming out as though he could not bear another moment in her presence.

Tears welled up unbidden in Anne's eyes. She blinked furiously. That had gone horribly wrong; Henry had been supposed to laugh and greet the news joyously, but instead he had been cold and had shown more apprehension than excitement. It was not only disappointing, but humiliating. Simply because he already had two children, or had lost Katherine to childbed fever, did not mean he should greet the news of his new wife's pregnancy so emotionlessly. This was a child they had created from love; so few were in noble and royal marriages. They should be thanking the Lord for their great blessing, but she doubted very much that Henry was thanking God.

At that moment, she hated him. He had suddenly made her the object of pity, something Anne had no desire whatsoever to be. She did not want her ladies to look at her and think that it was a shame that her husband could not, like others, rejoice in the fact that his wife was young and fruitful and that he would soon have more children—more heirs. The news would, of course, be spread throughout Court, and everyone would soon know not only that the Queen was with child but that the King could not even bring himself to feign happiness for her sake.

Anne tried not to think how Tom Wyatt would have reacted to the news that she was with child. He would have been overjoyed. He would have laughed, perhaps cried, and thrown his arms around her, kissed her, swung her about and immediately started making plans…

But it was too late for that. Tom was her past; Henry was her present and her future, and the child growing within her was Henry's.

She turned to look at her ladies, an almost fierce expression on her face. "The King needs time to reconcile himself to the idea of having another child," she said sharply, then turned on Nan Saville, who looked almost frightened. Her expression softened slightly. "And he will."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Nan muttered, and the other ladies repeated it, as though they could convince themselves, and their mistress, simply by saying it.

* * *

Anne stirred slowly and fitfully. Her dreams had been full of strange things—shadowy faves, voices which echoed but seemed impossible to make out, and strangely enough, the Nativity. First she was merely a spectator, standing on the side of Joseph, the loving and forgiving husband, as he led Mary to a patch of fresh hay, urging her to lay down, to rest, to breathe as evenly as she could…and suddenly, Anne herself became the Virgin. It was she who lay there in the hay, clutching the straw in one hand and Joseph's with the other…but Joseph had become Henry, and the loving eyes had become cold, dull, emotionless. His hand was limp in hers.

A wave of pain washed over her in the dream. It felt akin to the pain which accompanied her monthly bleeding only twice as powerful. Her eyes flew open in that moment. It was no dream—dreams were never accompanied by this kind of unbearable pain. She did not understand. Her courses had not come for nearly two months now. Dr. Linacre himself had confirmed her suspicions: she was with child. How could this be happening to her?

All at once the horrible truth occurred to her. She was losing the baby. But why? She had been careful, knowing all too well that pregnancies were fragile things. And she had been quite content, if not happy, for the most part. They had all been delighted that little Mary had recovered, and after that, everyone had been more cheerful, though Henry had remained somewhat wary as though he expected his daughter or someone else he cared about to lapse again into illness. She could not imagine any serious emotional strain from which she had suffered except…except for Henry's gloom reception of her news the previous day. No, surely his despondency had only been temporary…surely her unconscious mind and her body had not conspired against her own great happiness to rid her of the supposed danger. Surely not…

Her despair was drowned a second wave of agony crashed down upon her. She felt something sticky and wet against her legs and could not still her cry. The ladies beside her bed began to stir, but not quickly enough.

"Nan!" she shouted. She could hear the panic and knew her dear, faithful Nan would as well. "Nan, quickly!"

The ladies on the mats scrambled to their feet, looking groggy, confused, alarmed. "Your Majesty, what—," they asked sleepily, but Nan was suddenly by her side. She threw off the coverlet and all the women now present sucked in their breath. A bloodstain had begun to spread on Anne's white nightgown and on the bed sheets.

"Fetch Dr. Linacre!" Nan snapped at the goggling ladies. "There is no time to waste! Go!"

They dashed off at once, practically tripping over their own clumsy feet. Nan perched herself beside Anne, who was curled up to try and fight the pain, sobbing into her pillow. Her eyes were closed. She was unwilling to witness the travesty of losing her first and dearly-desired (at least by her) child. Why had God done this to her? She would have died, like Katherine, so that the baby might live, but she thought—no, knew—in her heart that she would not have died at all…

"Oh, my dear, sweet Anne…don't cry now, love…," Nan was murmuring, stroking her hair. They continued like this, like mother and child, until Dr. Linacre burst in, his brows drawn, to attend the Queen and her seemingly empty womb.

**23 December**

His sister did not understand why they were not permitted to see "Mama." It was almost Christmas, she'd cried the night before, when Harry had arrived. Their stepmother could not be locked away, hidden from them, during this festive season. She would _want _to see Mary no matter what Lady Salisbury said about Queen Anne seeing no one except for the King. When her stubborn demands had not worked to soften her governess, Mary simply marched alongside Harry when he went to present himself formally to their father. She was still a bit frail since her recent illness, and Harry had worried, but she seemed perfectly able to make the journey to the King's audience chamber with Salisbury tagging behind, only half-heartedly trying to reprimand her young charge as she went. In fact, as Harry bowed to his father, Mary marched right up to him, her little arms folded.

"Papa," she said angrily, "Salisbury won't let me see Mama."

Henry looked surprised but—for once—not very complacent. On this occasion, Harry doubted that running to their father would solve Mary's problems this time. "For good reason. She is unwell," he replied. "She can see no one, sweetheart, not even you."

"You've seen her!" Mary accused. Her stubborn determination almost made Harry smile, but he knew that in just a few years, it would lose its charm and be considered an unbecoming trait for a King's daughter, or any young lady, for that matter.

The King's face darkened for a moment. "Dr. Linacre has instructed that the Queen see no one. She is unwell, and on this occasion, his word means more than mine. You will see her when she has improved, Mary, and you will obey Lady Salisbury as well as myself!"

His tone seemed unnecessarily harsh to Harry, and must have to Mary too. "Yes, Your Majesty," she lisped. She curtsied to him and turned away, putting her small hand into Lady Salisbury's. The two exited silently, leaving father and son alone together, the silence growing heavy and awkward. Harry realized that he did not really know this man he called "father," and as a consequence did not know what to say to him. The strain of Mary's illness was clearly visible; new lines were etched into his face, accentuated by their stepmother's current plight. It was disconcerting to see King Henry, his father, _England's_ father, laid so low—tired, hopeless, broken.

He hesitated before he spoke. "Father…what…what is the matter with Her Majesty?"

At first he feared that he would be sent away or that Henry would simply ignore him. The King ran a hand slowly over his face; besides the lines, Harry cold see that there were dark circles beneath his father's eyes and that his complexion was ashen. He imagined that this was how his father must have looked upon his mother's death, though no doubt quite worse. Anne, after all, was still alive, though as far as Harry could tell, few at court actually knew what was wrong with the Queen and required her to be shut up in her chambers so close to Christmas Day, missing her first Christmastide festivities as Queen.

"She is with child," he replied finally. "She very nearly…lost the child…and Dr. Linacre fears she still may." At first, Harry thought that the idea of losing another child had been the upsetting thing, but his father continued: "She blames me, of course. She thinks—she knows—that I do not want the baby." The boy's eyes widened slightly. He could not imagine a reason why his father should not welcome a child by his new wife. At the same time, he thought he might rather _not_ know the answer to such a sentiment. Unless the King was thinking of Harry's mother…of her death. Did he wish that Mary had never been born as well, that Katherine had suffered a miscarriage instead? It was too horrible to consider, let alone ask. He shuddered. God, they said, had a plan for everyone, and it must have been his mother's time. As for the new Queen, Harry hoped only that she and his father were reconciled and that her health would improve soon.

The King's face had regained a bit of color and he seemed to realize that he was speaking to his son. He cleared his throat. "I am glad you arrived safely, my boy. Run along and mind your sister. I will…send word if Her Majesty's condition changes."

Harry bowed again, feeling quite eager to go see his sister and try to raise her spirits rather than stay in the unusually gloomy company of his father. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, and perhaps it was sinful or at least imprudent given the condition of his stepmother, but he found he also looked forward to catching a glimpse of Lady Jane Seymour while he visited with Mary.

* * *

Charles Brandon thought that his old friend could do with a bit of cheering up. Henry had been gloomy, unlike himself, for months now, ever since the Princess Mary had come down with an illness; but she had recovered, and was doing—by all accounts—wonderfully now. The charming new Queen, of course, had suffered from what had threatened to be a miscarriage only days ago, but from what Brandon had heard, Anne was doing perfectly well now. Prince Harry had arrived safely and there was a general cheerful attitude circulating around court, one which he hoped would improve the King's mood. He missed the old Henry, the Henry whom he had seen again for the first time since Katherine had died a few months ago but who had been banished again by the Princess' illness. That Henry had been the rebirth of England, the reason everyone had called him "Good King Hal" in the beginning; it was not as if the people disliked him now, hardly, especially since they still rejoiced to have one of their own as his new consort…but so much had changed in little more than a decade. It saddened Brandon, yet he knew that things did not _have_ to be that way.

He came to Henry's private chambers shortly before that evening's banquet, one that would undoubtedly be filled with dancing and singing and good cheer in spite of the absence of Queen Anne. But a brooding King would not do; there had to be some way to bring a smile to Henry's face…and of course, Brandon had another agenda too, one that he could not be pursued until his friend was sufficiently jolly.

"His Grace the Duke of Suffolk," called Henry's chamberlain as Brandon entered. The King looked up from a pile of parchment, his expression unreadable.

"Your Majesty!" Brandon called with a broad smile and bowed.

"Charles," Henry muttered, sounding unenthused, but he at least stood up.

Brandon straightened up and approached Henry with open arms. He embraced him unhesitatingly, thumping him on the back though he knew that it was unlikely his enthusiasm would likely not be reciprocated. Henry, however, seemed to warm slightly. He put an arm around Brandon's shoulders and there was a hint of a smile on his face. And why should there not be? Henry's children were here and the Queen was hardly at death's door, though from what he had heard, she had turned almost all visitors away.

"It's said that His Highness arrived this morning. I hope he'll come to see Uncle Charles before he returns to Richmond," Brandon said idly. Another smile hovered about Henry's lips, perhaps of bemusement. "And Mary? She is well, I trust," he continued.

"Much improved, I am told!" A genuine smile finally lit Henry's face, banishing some of the shadows there. Brandon was relieved to see that it reached his eyes.

"Excellent! Then I will have to claim a dance with your lovely daughter this evening, since your wife is indisposed." Something dark threatened to take hold of Henry then, Brandon could tell, but he was not finished. "And it is only a matter of time before we shall all be envious of you again for possessing such a gem, sire. Her Majesty has too strong a will to stay abed long and too gentle a heart to remain somber and isolated!" He did not simply say such a thing to lift Henry's spirits. He had no doubt that Anne would soon reappear to reign by his side soon. Surely that would distract him from whatever blackness had invaded his mind of late.

When Henry replied, his voice was somewhat terse but his words were teasing. "What would you know of the matter, Charles? All those women in your bed may be beautiful but they are hardly bound to you!"

He wondered, briefly, if Henry was afraid that the Queen might leave him, as though a woman would dream of doing such a thing. She would have to go through the Pope, and it was not as if she had any reason to. She was adored by the common people as well as by Henry and his children, received the best care, medically and otherwise, in the whole of England, and was provided for even more handsomely than Katherine had been, though the two women's tastes differed widely. There was no reason for her to want to go, nor for the Pope to grant her leave to do so even if she did. Surely Henry did not worry about something so implausible…but even if he did, Brandon was rather glad that he be brought up the "bonds" of marriage. He was not sure if it was the wisest time to make this proposal, but Brandon was not a patient man. He was, due in large part to his friendship with the King of England, rather used to getting what he wanted, and certainly hoped that he would not be disappointed this time.

"You know, sire…Henry…your recent marriage has made me think on my own behavior, and I have to say that I envied you more than I ever had in the past, seeing you with the Queen…"

He was cut off midway through the thought by Henry's raucous laughter. This came as something as a surprise to him and he smiled weakly, wondering if he ought to be laughing as well. Did the King think he was speaking in jest, or that the idea of him giving up his former way of life—or aiming to—was laughable? Yes, he had been (and still was) something of a womanizer, but so had Henry, the same man before him now who had spent five years deep in mourning for his first wife and now anxious about and utterly devoted to his second. When he opened his mouth to speak again, Henry cut him off.

"Charles! I would never have imagined to hear such a thing from you. Who is this remarkable young lady?" He was grinning now.

Brandon cleared his throat. Perhaps this had been a larger mistake than he realized. But he could not ignore the question, nor could he lie; he would simply have to tell Henry the truth as a friend, as a loyal subject and servant, and hope for the best. He looked his friend squarely in the eye. "I have not spoken to her yet, sire, because I know she would desire your blessing as much as I…" He took a deep, almost shuddering breath, and knelt before the King then. "Your Majesty, I have lost my heart to the Princess Margaret, and it is my belief that she loves me as well. It is my dearest wish to marry her."

An excruciatingly long silence followed this announcement. His eyes were humbly averted from Henry's face so that he could not even guess what Henry's reaction might be. Would be consider it an insult that his best friend sought the hand of his sister, a would-be Queen? Or would he remember that he was married to a humble knight's daughter himself for the sake of love and feel empathy for Brandon?

When they came, Henry's words were soft and slow. "You have said nothing to Margaret?"

"No, Your Majesty…"

"Stand up, Charles."

Something akin to hope rose like a phoenix from the ashes in Brandon's heart. He raised his chin and got to his feet. Henry's brows were drawn, but he could not make out just what he was thinking by the look on his face. It was not anger but no fool could call it empathy or joy. Their eyes met again. Brandon held his breath.

"You should speak to her, in that case. Ask her what she thinks of this idea of yours—she is, after all, the object of your desire. Tell her so, Charles."

The temptation to say that Margaret was already well aware of his desire was difficult to suppress, but Brandon inclined his head. "Yes, Your Majesty." Henry waved a hand to signal his dismissal, and he made to back out of the room as one was expected to do in a formal meeting with the King, which theirs had quite suddenly become. Then he hesitated. "Your Majesty…if the Princess gives her consent, will you give our union your blessing?" Margaret had already made it very clear that she would not act against her brother's will. Henry, however, did not answer, only stared at a spot somewhere in the empty corridor behind Brandon, leaving him to back away silently, as anxious about his possible future with Margaret Tudor as he had been before.

* * *

Princess Margaret sat alone in her bedchamber. She was dressed in one of her finest gowns, gorgeous cream silk with silver embroidery. Atop the red-brown hair hanging loosely down her back sat a pearl diadem, mirroring her simple pearl necklace. She stared at the image reflected in her looking glass. It did not show her a particularly lovely woman, she thought, nor a truly young one. But she did look virginal, regal. She cut the figure of a King's sister well enough. And…a bride? Was this what her wedding gown would be, too? Simple, regal, and for the last time, virginal? Would she even have a wedding gown? Would Henry see her as a future bride tonight…would Charles?

Charles.

At this moment, Margaret thought she would let go of all her pride and beg Henry to let him marry her. She had been haughty and cruel to Charles Brandon for so long, but she could no longer deny that there was something between them, something she wanted to spend the rest of her life exploring. Her brother had his child, Mary, to make alliances for him now. Surely he did not need his aging sister, the best match for whom had supposedly been the King of Portugal. She did not want to be Queen of anything, no matter how much she envied Anne Boleyn. She pitied her, too, and found that the more she thought of it, the more she liked the idea of being the Duchess of Suffolk—she would much rather be the Duchess whose bed was filled by a hot-blooded young man and whose womb would someday swell with a child than a lonely, useless forgotten Princess. But would Henry permit it? Why not? Charles was as good as his precious little wife. Besides, he loved her. He had finally said so to her face that very day, leaving her completely speechless. And for all their quarrels, she found that the feeling was mutual.

Her feelings may not be enough for Henry, nor Charles', but in that moment Margaret realized there was someone's whose feelings were all that mattered: Anne's. If she wanted to make sure she had her brother's consent, her sister-in-law was the one to ask. It made her a bit ill to think of asking Anne for her help in anything, much less a matter so dear to her heart. But if she was willing to beg Henry, she could at least request this of his wife.

She rose from her seat at once. Soon, her ladies would return to accompany her to the banquet, but before that she would see the Queen. Setting her face into a cool mask, Margaret lifted her skirts and set off. She was a Princess and a Tudor; it would be a blow to her pride to pander to a Boleyn, but Anne was indeed the Queen and in her womb—miraculously, some would say—grew a child of Tudor blood as surely as Margaret herself was. Whatever else her faults, the woman was no whore.

When she reached them, she found Anne's chambers guarded by two stony-faced young men. She stood before them, fully expecting to be let in at once, but they made no move to allow her access.

"What are you waiting for?" she snapped, unable to bite back her temper.

"Her Majesty and Dr. Linacre have both requested that none be granted an audience," one of them said simply.

Was the man blind? Did he not know to whom he spoke? "I know His Majesty has seen her. I am the King's sister—let me pass! I do not care what Dr. Linacre has decreed," she added, to silence his protest. "I am the daughter of King Henry VII. I demand entrance!"

The forcefulness of this declaration seemed to stir them. They glanced uneasily at one another, weighing their options-to let the angry Princess through and perhaps upset the Queen whose state, it was rumored, was fragile to begin with, or to perhaps face not only Margaret's wrath but that of the King as well. They would likely face his wrath either way, of course, and seemed to decide that the scowling woman before them despite her delicate finery was the more immediate threat. They moved aside slowly, almost shuffling away from the doors. Margaret lifted her chin haughtily and had to force herself not to yank them open like a spiteful child.

Anne's ladies were all huddled around their embroidery by the fire, none of them, it seemed, planning on attending the banquet without their mistress. Their chatter did not sound excited or anticipatory and there was nothing remarkable at all about the way in which they dressed. When Margaret entered, however, they all looked rather shocked.

"Your Highness…" one of them ventured. "Her Majesty…she is unwell…"

"I am perfectly aware, thank you," Margaret snapped, and ignored the protestations of the women as she continued towards Anne's bedchamber.

Naturally, thanks to all the commotion, the Queen did not look surprised when she appeared in the open doorway. Anne lay propped up by pillows. She wore a nightgown just a shade paler than her own skin, which appeared, save for her lips, almost entirely colorless to Margaret. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. One lady alone sat by her bedside, holding a small book; whether they had been reading or chatting together Margaret could not say nor did she particularly care. Besides her pallor, Anne looked perfectly healthy to Margaret. Why was she shutting herself up in here? She and the good doctor could not truly believe that a bit of music and wine could harm the child who had already survived, parse, a near miscarriage, and the court was more likely to cheer her than taunt her.

Margaret curtsied as deeply as she could bring herself to. "Your Majesty," she said woodenly.

"Sister, welcome," Anne replied mildly, giving no clue whatever as to her feelings on her orders being disobeyed. Margaret was too far from her to see her eyes. "What is it that brings you here?"

Hating herself for every step, Margaret approached the bed until she stood a few paces from its foot. "I have come to express my sympathy."

Anne's lips twitched up into a tiny smile. "Thank you for your concern. Only God's grace, and Dr. Linacre of course, could have saved my child." Her child. Margaret swallowed her bile and her envy. She would give anything for a child; it would be proof beyond doubt that she was no longer approaching the status of a spinster. Still, part of her was glad for Anne. The child she carried was, after all, Henry's as well, and however she felt about its mother, she was sure that she would find it as loveable as Harry and Mary.

There was no point in postponing the inevitable, however. Anne could—and surely would—help her. Margaret so dearly wanted to be wed to a man she could, no matter how infuriating he could be, tolerate, no, _love_, that she would pay the price: debt to Anne Boleyn. "And…to ask a favor of you." Hearing this, Anne raised one delicate brow curiously. Margaret chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before she continued, forcing every word out though they pained her. "His Grace the Duke of Suffolk asked the King for my hand this afternoon. The King has not yet given his consent, and I fear that he will not." There. It was said, though she had not specifically asked for anything. Hopefully Anne was bright enough to know and charitable enough to agree.

"You wish me to intercede on your behalf with the King?" Anne murmured. "But why should he listen to me?"

_He has already made you the Queen of England, ungrateful child! Clearly there is nothing he will not do for you! _Margaret wanted to scream this at her, but she simply lowered her head humbly. "I hope that he will overcome his own misgivings if he has you to advise him, Your Majesty."

Did her sister-in-law know how she envied her, how she hated her or at least had hated her, how she had argued against the marriage between her and Henry? Would she use this as an opportunity to pay Margaret back in kind, suggesting that the King actually force Brandon into exile or his sister into a nunnery or another awful foreign marriage? Or would she prove herself to be the dignified, kind-hearted woman that everyone supposed she was and that Margaret tried so hard _not_ to see.

"Of course I will speak to the King." The words were simple and in them Margaret could detect no malice at all. In fact, Anne smiled almost…sympathetically. "I can guarantee nothing, but I promise I will try."

Margaret could not bring herself to thank Anne. She did, however, sink into a curtsy, ashamed that she had had to sink to such levels but relieved, for once, that the Queen's word carried so much weight in the eyes of her brother. "Your Majesty," she said, and turned on heel, vanishing. It was time that she got to the banquet. She actually felt that they might be a spectacle to look forward to, for once, rather than an ordeal in which she was put on display as the King's still-unmarried sister. Soon, all that would change. Soon, she would be far happier than "the most happy" Queen Anne—that was something she promised herself.

When the doors shut behind Margaret, Anne turned to Nan Saville. She had no desire to see Henry, not really, but she had a duty to his sister as she would to any subject. She was, after all, the Queen. Besides, she would enjoy being out of this bed and wanted to see Mary and her brother as well. She was tired of being cooped up here already though it had been only three days. The pain had gone; the sheets were clean. She felt nervous but well-rested. Life was passing by outside of her chambers. She was hiding from it, as though Henry's fears had infected the corridors of Whitehall and that shutting them out was the only way to protect herself and the child who somehow clung to life within her. But while she tried to shut those fears out, the demons of loneliness and doubt had bred within these walls.

"Nan, fetch me the gold gown with the bell sleeves," she instructed.

Nan, bless her, shook her head; her eyes widened. "Your Majesty, you mustn't—you aren't thinking of…the banquet. Not so soon! You have not fully recovered!"

"Fetch me the gown," Anne repeated.

"But Dr. Linacre…"

"I am fully aware of his advice, but he is a physician and I am your Queen." Her tone was suddenly sharper and impatient. She did not mean to snap at Nan, but her mind was made up. If she paid the price for it, she would have only herself to blame, and besides, nothing dictated how long she had to stay. In this one instance, at least, she could decide for herself. She was, as she had said, the Queen. Besides, she had been growing surer with each passing day that the Lord had rescued her child for a reason. He would not abandon her now.

A jittery Nan returned with the gown and helped Anne dress. She forewent stays, her fingers brushing lightly over the still-flat stomacher with its tiny seed pearls. Soon, she prayed, the baby would quicken, reassuring its mother that it still lived and grew within her. How it would feel, Anne pondered as Nan secured her hair with pearls, to have the baby move? Kick? And to finally have it in her arms…

She nearly lost herself in the fantasy, but came back to herself when Nan tapped her on the shoulder. "Your Majesty…" She gestured to the collection of necklaces, rings and earrings which had been brought out and laid before her. Anne waved her hand over them.

"No jewels tonight, Nan."

Her friend said nothing, though she again looked surprised. Anne smiled at her, hoping to assuage her fears. Nothing was going to happen to her at the banquet, she was sure now, that would not happen just as easily in her own bed. She touched Nan's hand and squeezed it gently before she stood up, smoothing her skirts. She had not wanted this then, but now she was beginning to see that being Queen could have its advantages. Even if Henry saw the child she carried as a threat, Anne did not it and she doubted the court did either. She would accept their support, however limited it was, if she could not have her husband's. She would draw strength from them where she ought to draw it from him.

Her ladies whispered and tittered as she emerged, all gold and ivory and ebony. She did not speak to them and rather enjoyed their half-frightened, half-excited voices as she swept out of the room, Nan following her. The rest of them would join shortly, she was sure, once they had silenced their curiosity.

The corridors, by contrast, were empty and silent and shadowy. The revelry seemed thus twice as great when they arrived in the great dining hall. Music and laughter echoed within and the warmth and light of the hearth and of the spirit of Christmastide itself emitted from its open doors. Women in a wide array of beautiful and colorful gowns populated the dance floor as well as the tables. At the royal table, she spied Henry already present as well as Margaret and Prince Harry. Her empty seat was quite noticeable…_as it has been for too long,_ she thought, and approached the entry.

The heralds stared at her for a moment. Obviously no one had thought to expect her, and she thought that, in a way, that was more satisfactory. Still they blew their trumpets and the hall fell still. All eyes were drawn to the wide doors.

"Her Majesty the Queen!" the heralds cried, and Queen Anne stepped forward into the festive embrace of her court.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	11. Chapter Ten

**A/N: **This may be the last update of anything for a while; I'm so bogged down with schoolwork in the upcoming weeks that I won't know what to do with myself. Anyway, I hope everyone thoroughly enjoys it. To everyone who voted in the latest poll: thank you for the opinions–your voices have been heard! Be on the look out for another in the very near future about another issue I'll need some help deciding. And as always, thank you for reading and giving me feedback. I really appreciate it. And special thanks to those of you who have read and reviewed "Hope Remains" so far!

Also, in case anyone was wondering, I cannot write Elizabeth out of history; she's going to arrive when she's supposed to (1533); keep in mind that Anne is only about 21 presently!

* * *

**August-September, 1522  
Whitehall**

Something was very wrong. Anne knew that. She had known it for quite some time. Her husband the King had been struck down by fear rather than joy upon hearing of her pregnancy and of apprehension and anxiety rather than relief when she did not, in fact, miscarry the child. They had reconciled after that, but things had changed between them. There was something distant about Henry all throughout her pregnancy, as though pushing her away would ease the pain he would feel upon the possible occasion of her death. It wounded Anne deeply to think that such paranoia could rule the mind of a King, especially one such as Henry, and that he would rather protect himself than be there for her, his supposedly beloved wife, in her hour of need. With each passing day, she felt more as though she had made the wrong choice. Anne did not think she would die and even if she did, she did not fear what it meant for her. But what it would mean for Mary, for her own child, for England…

Her confidence was well-founded. Though she had felt as though she might _like_ to die, first of boredom and then of pain, during her lying-in, she had emerged hale and rosy-cheeked, though exhausted. The labor had not been anything horrific-it had been far more painful than she could have imagined, of course, but the midwives told her that she had done well for a young mother delivering for the first time. She had not caught chills or fever afterward. The future seemed suddenly bright. Anne was hardly dead; she was triumphant!

In light of this, she hoped and expected to welcome the Henry she had known and with whom she had fallen in love back into her life when one of her ladies was sent to fetch him. Nan had pulled back her damp hair, braiding it with skilled fingers. Anne could not see her, but she could hear her hum softly under her breath. Of all her ladies, dear Nan had been the one most worried for her mistress during her confinement and lying-in, and now that it was safely behind them, she had been put at ease once more. It made her smile.

"Do you think the King will be pleased, Nan?" Anne mused as the woman began to dab her sweaty brow with a cool cloth. Her anticipation had grown nearly unbearable and had already begun to undermine her confidence. Surely Henry would be thrilled to see his lovely young wife lying there, unscathed. It meant he too could relax. His fears were unfounded after all.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Why would he not be?" she murmured, offering her one of her warm, simple smiles. Anne breathed a bit easier.

When Henry appeared, he looked happy. There was a certain lightness to his step that she remembered from the early days of their marriage, and he certainly sounded relieved. But something…something was different, though Anne could not find the words to name it.

"Sweetheart, they tell me you have a surprise for me," he said, hovering at the edge of her bed near Anne's feet. If she had wondered then why he hung back, her worries were quickly banished by her weariness and excitement. She beamed.

"Yes. We have been truly blessed, my love. The Lord has smiled upon England and granted her a Duke of York," she said.

Though she did indeed feel blessed, Anne's joy was not a product of her happiness for her country. She was glad enough that Henry could feel more secure about the succession; having two heirs would seem preferable for any man, King or merchant, than having only one. But Anne was interested only in the boy himself. Her son. Her child. He was, she felt, especially since Prince Harry had come before him, hers first, England's second. She had not known until the moment of his birth that it was possible to love so powerfully. Not even Henry commanded that sort of emotion from within her breast.

Henry smiled in return, his attention distracted as the midwife appeared by his side as though Anne's words had summoned her. She presented a tiny child with downy golden hair to him. The infant was wrapped tightly in clean white linen. The King's expression softened still more. Anne recognized that face. It had until now been reserved especially for Mary–rarely her older brother, who inspired a less tender, more proud air from his father. It warmed her heart, though when the midwife extended her arms further, asking, "Would you like to hold him, Your Majesty?" he shook his head. Perhaps he was more interested in his wife's well-being, or simply saw his newborn son as too fragile to be handled by a man and would rather safely commend his care, at least for now, to womenfolk.

He looked over the sleeping child, over the midwife's shoulder, into Anne's face. Then he sidestepped them and went to her. The compassion with which he had looked upon this third child had already faded into something duller and harder to read, but Anne refused to acknowledge it. She simply continued to smile. If she was cheerful enough, if she seemed well enough, Henry would shake off this behavior once and for all. "Is he not perfect?"

"He is. I am proud of you, sweetheart. He will be a fine boy…a fine Prince," Henry promised, but they did not sound as sincere as she would have hoped–or expected. Something about them felt used, recycled, rehearsed, as though he had said this same thing before…and he had, she realized. He has said it to Katherine, of course, when Harry had been born. Anne felt stung. Was her husband simply reliving a memory of that day eleven years ago when his precious Katherine had presented him with a Prince of Wales? Well, she was not Katherine! She wanted Henry's love back, the kind he had given without filtering it through his remembrances of a dead woman. Still, she accepted the kiss he pressed against her cheek. While he leaned over her, she closed her slender fingers around his wrist, holding him there. She forced herself to remain cheerful. It could simply be her imagination, her exhausted mind, playing tricks on her.

"Wait. You have yet to meet your daughter," she said softly. His blue eyes widened-first confusion and then surprise flashed across them. Anne's soul sang with new hope. Surely he could not fear for her anymore. She was well and whole and had given him not one but two healthy children.

This time it was Anne's sister Mary, her face flushed with unadulterated pleasure, who stepped towards the royal couple. In her arms was nestled a second infant, this one dark-haired and very much awake. Her eyes were grey, like pools of clear water reflecting an overcast sky, rather than blue. Henry stared at this child silently for a very long moment. But he did not ask to hold her and Mary, unlike the midwife, did not offer, perhaps in hopes of sparing her sister's feelings.

"She is lovely," he proclaimed after a long pause, "like her mother."

Some of Anne's ladies giggled and applauded. Anne simply smiled and averted her eyes. It was not modesty but tears for which she did so, though they were likely unjustified. The onlookers seemed to think nothing was amiss, after all. Did she want there to be? Was she simply looking for an excuse to feel as downtrodden as she had since Christmas? She felt Henry's lips, dry, against her cheek again. "You should sleep. You will want to be well enough for the christening…"

She had not even consented to this claim before Henry turned to go. "Henry, wait," she called again. "They have not been named…"

The King paused. Without turning back towards her, he said, "Edward. Name him Edward."

And then he was gone, leaving behind him a nameless daughter and a wife caught between her heartache and her anger.

The time that had passed between that day had passed slowly indeed. Anne had been perfectly well enough to hold her children–first the boy, little Edward, and several days later his sister, whom Anne had chosen to call Eleanor, after each had been christened, presenting them to the court. On that first night, she had thought until sleep claimed her on how best to win back Henry's loyalty, his devotion–his true love. Yet she had told herself not to fear too much. Now that the children were delivered safely, Henry would eventually relax; life would return to normal, or however normal it had been prior to Mary's illness and her pregnancy.

Therefore the disappointments, when they came, were hard to bear.

When she was recovered enough to move about in her own chambers–though she had yet to be churched and was therefore not free to rejoin court–Anne discovered that she was not permitted to suckle the royal infants herself. Queens simply did not do such things, and Her Majesty was better off leaving such a task to the nurses of the young prince and princess. These women and even Dr. Linacre wore slightly apologetic smiles, as though she were a child whose fantasy they had been forced to quash. Anne tried again to be a strong, commanding Queen. She would take the issue up with His Majesty if they did not listen to her. It could not be so unheard of, a woman wanting to have her own children at her breast.

"I am afraid they know best, sweetheart. Such things are not for Queens," was all Henry had said when she did take the issue to him. Her tone, a mixture of heartbreak and outrage, had failed to sway him at all. He kissed her on the brow, stayed ten minutes in her company to see the children, and then they–the nurses, the children and the King–had all gone again.

Shortly after that, a royal nursery had been established at Hatfield. Edward and Eleanor were to be taken there very soon, as soon as was possible. Anne found this out from Dr. Linacre rather than her husband and though she was rather fond of the royal physician and very much indebted to him, she was dismayed and angry at the thought of having her babies ripped from her so suddenly. She saw them seldom enough, perhaps once a day if she was fortunate, as it was. If they lived in the country, she would be required to make special trips to see them and she knew without having to ask that the opportunities to do so would be limited, especially after the bitter cold of winter returned. If she should get pregnant again (though the idea of holding a reasonably pleasant conversation with Henry was farfetched, much less bedding him) she would not be able to travel at all and would be utterly cut off from both children.

Dr. Linacre explained that the heat of the summer promoted an unhealthy atmosphere at court and that it was in the children's interest to be in the countryside. Anne had forced herself not to mention the Princess Mary's illness of last year. She would not use her sweet little stepdaughter as a shield. In fact, the idea that Mary would be there as company for her growing brother and sister offered her some comfort. Mary would love them and give them the time and attention that their mother could not. Yet she felt as though she should be able to; she should not be cut off like this.

Again, she made an attempt to appeal to Henry, but to no avail. Neither tears nor shouting could melt his hardened heart, it seemed to Anne.

"Mary and Harry both have their own households; Harry has lived at Richmond since his christening, and Mary at Hatfield. It is tradition, sweetheart. Court is no place for children," he murmured, pulling her into one-armed embrace, trying to smooth her hair with one hand. Rather than calm her, however, his words and what they implied riled her further. How dare he? Henry was all but comparing her to Katherine! If his darling first wife, the perfect Spanish princess, had accepted the banishment of her children–or at least of Harry; there was no doubt in Anne's mind why Mary had been sent away–than Anne ought to accept it, too, or else she would prove herself to be unworthy and common, as some at court had said from the beginning.

"I don't care if they had a dozen royal houses; _our_ children are too young! They need us…they need _me_!" she cried, writing out of his grip.

It was not the truth and perhaps for that reason her words had had no effect. Edward and Eleanor, she realized, did not truthfully have _any_ need of her, only of the nursemaids who tended to them. She, their mother, had been useful only to give them life, and even that she had nearly failed to do. Yet the idea of parting with them was simply unbearable, perhaps _because_ she had not lost them to miscarriage. Though she had stopped arguing the point to Henry, it still caused her pain to think of being more than a few minutes' walk from them. More and more, she was beginning to think that they–and her stepchildren–were all she had in this gilded cage. Her sister and brother loved her, but they would still have loved her if she was Lady Anne Wyatt. She still thought of that, sometimes. Usually the thoughts came at night in her lonely, empty bed, as moonlight filtered in through the narrow windows.

How would Tom have reacted if she had borne him two beautiful children? Would they have sat together in the warm afternoon sunlight, one child sleeping in Tom's lap and one in Anne's arms while he read them poetry about the roses in her cheeks, the shadows in her hair, the silk of their infants' skin?

Not that it mattered now. She was not married to Tom Wyatt; she was not a simple country housewife. The time for that had long passed. Instead, she was Queen Anne, the mother of the Prince Edward and the Princess Eleanor. She was beloved by the people, by the King's elder daughter, and had once been precious to her husband as well, but it seemed that he had forgotten those happy days of little more than a year ago.

Henry must have known, as Anne did in her heart of hearts, that she would not be wholly willing to let the royal babes go if it was left to her to hand them over. He suggested that she should say goodbye to them in the evening and that they, and their households, could leave the following morning. Since the battle was lost already, Anne was unwilling to widen the gulf between them still further in an attempt to protest. So the King and Queen bade farewell to their month-old children in the privacy of Anne's apartments. She cradled her tiny son close. He was half-asleep, as was often the case, and she tried not to cry for his sake. She distracted herself by whispering endearments to him and pressing feather-light kisses against his face. Henry held the girl-child and was silent, observing his wife and Edward more closely than the second daughter with whom he would soon have to part.

A week after Edward and Eleanor's departure, Anne was churched. She was finally cleansed, free, and for a while, her spirits rose. She could again indulge in walks in the garden, in dancing, even in riding and hawking, some of her greatest pleasures. It seemed perfectly reasonable that Henry would return to her bed now, as well, healing the rift between them. She wanted his companionship and his love. She thirsted for it. Yet he did not come, and she saw him just as infrequently as before. Dancing seemed to lose some of its thrill and riding or even simply walking in the company of only her ladies made these activities only half as appealing. Why had Henry lost interest in her so swiftly? Obviously his love for Katherine had extended for over a decade; did people not say that he had loved her even as a boy, when he was the Duke of York and she his "sister" the Princess of Wales?

But why not simply go to him again? She was the mother of his children, now, but that changed nothing; if anything, it should make raise her in Henry's eyes. And in this case she would go specifically to him, not to his bed. She was not interested in resuming their lovemaking–and Henry could hardly be, either, or else he would have come to her by now. She only missed _him,_ her Henry, the man who had rescued her from her father's cruelty…that seemed like another world now.

"Nan," Anne called, glancing away from the window. Her friend hurried away from her needlework to attend to whatever need she may have.

She needed support this time. She was not the lonely young bride going to her husband's bed; she was a sad mother who felt, sometimes, that she may as well be a widow. She had everything she could ever have wished for, save for the steadfast love of her husband. It was almost too much to bear…and so she could not do this alone.

"Will you accompany me to the King's apartments?" she asked softly. Her eyes scanned the other ladies a bit warily over Nan's shoulder. She was, even now, not certain of their loyalties, and did not want gossip to run more rampant than could be helped through court that she had already lost her hold on the King. Nan, though she looked surprised, inclined her head in assent. For the thousandth time, Anne thanked God she had her. Without Nan, she would be lost.

Her appearance hardly mattered anymore. Henry had seen her looking hale so often in the months following their children's births that she could not imagine that he was expecting her to drop dead any longer. Anne therefore did not change from her pale green day-gown, nor did she ask Nan to rearrange her hair before they left. If it had been proper, she would have walked by her friend's side and squeezed her hand to keep herself from turning back, but she had to take comfort instead from Nan's lingering presence behind her. She tried to rehearse what she would say to him in her mind: ask him why he was so distant, plead that things could be as they once were…she remembered, even now, the way Henry had looked at her: as though she had been sent to him by God himself. Well, she did not desire to be an angel or a goddess…simply loved.

They reached the King's apartments sooner than Anne might have liked, only to find guards before the doors. She frowned at them when they did not stand aside at once to permit the Queen entry.

"I wish to see His Majesty," she said simply, daring either man to challenge her.

Yet challenge they did; no, outright defied her! "I apologize, Your Majesty, the King can see no one at the moment," the younger-looking of the guards said somberly.

"I am his wife. I am your Queen! Stand aside," Anne ordered. She felt like the young man was being intentionally difficult and resented him for it. He could not disobey her! Yet neither man looked moved. They simply stared ahead, repeating that the King could see no one, not even Her Majesty the Queen.

It was then, as she opened her mouth to repeat her demand, that Anne heard it: the shrill sound of female laughter ringing from within Henry's chambers. And it was then she knew the truth. She knew why he would not admit any visitors, not even–no, especially not–his wife. He was bedding another woman…he had taken a mistress…he had betrayed her. She had presented him with the most precious gift she could ever give, two beautiful infants, and he had sent them away like excess clothing, to be stored somewhere out of sight. In return, he showed her a strange indifference and worse, this! Her world, already crumbling at the edges, became a whirlwind. It whipped about her, threatening to consume her in its madness. Her legs felt weak; would they continue to hold her?

"Nan…Nan…" she whispered, turning around. She blindly grasped for Nan's hand and mercifully found it. Her friend put an arm around her waist; she must look faint indeed. Had Nan heard it, too? Or could she simply guess from the guards' words, less willing to fool herself than Anne had been?

The walk there had been brief, but the walk on unsteady legs back to her own apartments seemed an eternity. She doubted she would have made it there without help from Nan. Dear soul! By the time they arrived back in the Queen's chambers, she had nearly dissolved into tears. Nan tactfully ordered the others away, telling them to take the remainder of the afternoon for themselves. Her Majesty would be fine spending this day quietly and without company. Only after they had all gone did Anne allow herself to dissolve into tears. They became loud, racking sobs which not even Nan's soft murmurs and gentle embrace could quell. Henry had betrayed her, as though what they had shared had been nothing! She could not bear it. She simply could not bear it. He was supposed to have loved her. Why would he do this? Why was God doing this? Was He testing her in some way? Anne felt helpless, a little child…this was worse than she had ever felt during their courtship, even during the dark times when she feared his love for Katherine would forever eclipse his love for her. Now she questioned whether he still loved her at all.

Finally, she made up her mind; she could not remain at court when some other woman shared the King's bed. The thought of Henry kissing another, touching her as he had touched Anne…and when his wife was well and able, when her pregnancy had done nothing but perhaps given her a slightly less-slender waist and fuller breasts!

"I am going to Hatfield, Nan," she said. "Tomorrow at first light. Please pack my things…"

In other circumstances, Nan would likely have asked if this was a wise course of action. She would have perhaps weighed the positives and negatives of Anne's situation. Now, however, she seemed to feel that it was better to simply comply with her lady's wishes. Anne had no desire to be pitied, but she would accept Nan's silence and her sympathy. As for herself, she did not plan on advertising the reason for her departure, though word would likely spread quickly enough. She did not even think of asking the King's approval–she neither wanted nor felt like she needed it. She did not want to see him at all, in fact.

Soon, she would be with her children, who had been created when Henry's love was still pure–for her and for Katherine, too; Mary was as good as her own daughter, and Anne had not seen her since Christmas. She missed the child. Yes; in the country, with her children, Anne would be happy again, and she would not rely on Henry to dictate that happiness. She could be herself and leave the burden of his betrayal far behind her.

**16 September  
Hatfield House**

Summer died slowly in the countryside, and Jane was glad of it. She cherished the shortening days, still warm and still green. Even Lady Salisbury took pity on her young charge, so Jane and her fellow maids-of-honor were permitted to laze about outside as while Mary played. The young princess preferred her games to her lessons, especially now that "Mama" had arrived. She showed such unadulterated glee to have her stepmother near her again; Jane was, as always, a bit envious of their closeness. Yet the Queen had changed. She was not at all the woman Jane remembered–neither the pagan goddess who had made the summer stars shine more intensely in the sky during midsummer nor the beautiful bride who had commanded the King and court's attention so thoroughly.

There was something hollow and sad about her now, though Jane supposed she might be imagining such things. Mary did not seem to notice much of a difference, though she did complain to Salisbury that Mama spent far too much time with her baby brother and sister than with her. When Jane thought about it, the Queen _did _often retreat to her own infants' wing, despite Mary begging her to play another round of some game or other. Why had the King not accompanied her, and why had her visit come so unannounced? Such questions were not for someone as lowly as Jane to ask, but she wondered all the same. She had seen with her own eyes how clearly the King adored her, or had adored her, and she doubted that things could have changed after the Queen had given him not one but _two_healthy children.

Sometimes, it seemed easy to forget that the Prince Edward and Princess Eleanor lived at Hatfield now. They were rarely seen, unless Mary demanded to visit them, for she and her tiny siblings were kept in separate areas of the household. Likewise, it became easy after the first few days to nearly forget about the Queen's presence as well.

She retreated more and more from Mary's exuberant activities: her games, her favorite lessons, her meals; they were all things that the Princess liked to share with those she was fond of (including Harry, when he was here–and how Jane secretly wished he would come again!). But the girl's stepmother did not seem as inclined to humor her now as he had been in the past. It was sad but also intriguing. If Jane had been a braver girl, she might have ventured to find out why.

Everything had changed, however, with the arrival of the Queen's brother. He had appeared shortly after Mary's midday meal. Jane had neglected her embroidery as she watched from the window: the Queen rushed out to greet him, looking happier than she had thus far in her stay. She flung her arms around his neck and both of them appeared to be laughing, though she could hear nothing from behind the glass. Lady Salisbury had noticed her inattention, however, and told her sharply to pay more heed to her work, which put a end to her observations. she hoped, for hr mistress' sake, that her brother would lift the Queen's spirits for good and that the remainder of her time at Hatfield would be more pleasant for her as well as for her stepdaughter.

Yet that now looked less likely than Jane might have wished. She had been trailing the remainder of Mary's maids as they filed outside-perhaps to give Master Boleyn some privacy with his sister, or perhaps because Salisbury was simply tired of Mary's restlessness. If Salisbury's reasoning was the former, Jane suddenly knew why, for in the stillness of the house–devoid of its most boisterous resident–she heard the Queen's voice. It was faint but thick, as though she had been crying.

"George…he's already lost interest…already bedded…another," she whimpered.

Jane could not hear whatever her brother said in return, nor could she stay and listen. It was not her business, and she would hate to receive a scolding from Salisbury for eavesdropping on the King's wife…or worse still, to be discovered by the distraught Queen or her brother.

The words plagued her as she joined the rest of the maids outside, however. The King had taken another lady to his bed, when his own wife was so young and beautiful and healthy? She shuddered. Her thoughts inevitably strayed to Harry. Her handsome young Prince…would he follow in his father's footsteps? Would he become a distant, cold-hearted man in the future as King Henry had after the first Queen's death? No, no, surely not Harry! He was such a sweet boy. Jane could not imagine Harry's future wife weeping over his infidelities. But as always, Jane found it a little painful to think too long on him. She was nearly fourteen now; she would soon enough be a woman in her own right; perhaps she would be transferred into the Queen's service so that she might find a husband. But there was not even the slimmest of possibilities of one with Harry. She was foolish even to dwell on that reality. He had been kind to her, yes. He had begun to teach her to read and write, implored that she write to him…he had even danced with her at his father's wedding.

But he was destined to become the King of England and marry some lovely foreign princess. Jane was destined for nothing besides perhaps childbearing. Certainly no on expected much from her, not even her family. Serving a princess and a Queen was likely the best she would ever do for herself.

Yet she could not help but imagine it, someday in the distant future-herself clad in a grand white gown embroidered with tiny pearls; her hair intricately curled; her face covered by the most delicate white lace… She could almost feel her arm in her father's as they walked up the steps of Westminster Abbey. She could hear the people cheering–and there, there through the doors, at the end of the grand aisle, was Harry…only this Harry was not a twelve-year-old boy. He was tall and heartbreakingly handsome, and the smile on his face was for her and her alone. She turned her head slightly as they approached him; there was the King with graying temples and the Queen, looking as beautiful as she had the day Jane had first seen her, beside him. Further down their pew, the grown Princess Mary, beaming; and the Prince Edward, golden-haired and demure, and his sister Eleanor, as dark and lovely as her mother though the pair of them were only perhaps Mary's current age…

"Lady Jane, why do you look so strange?" The Princess' voice broke through her fantasy, shattering it at once. Jane looked up, her eyes widening.

"I-I was…thinking, Your Highness," she stammered, lowering her eyes away from the little girl. _Thinking about your brother._ But she could not say that, not even if she wanted to. Even at six, Mary would know that a girl of Jane's station had no business daydreaming about the Prince of Wales. She bit her bottom lip keep herself from sighing.

Mary giggled, happily unaware of Jane's hopeless dreams as well as of her stepmother's woes. "You should try to find me instead!" Having said this and offering no time for disagreements or protests from the confused young woman, she scampered off to hide behind something that would no doubt be obvious and wait for Jane to stumble across her. After a moment, Jane obediently rose and began searching, but in the back of her mind she could still see Harry's warm smile reminding her of all that she could never have.

**Whitehall**

Young Mistress Seymour was not the only one dreaming, though the King of England had the benefit of doing so in his bed. He had been informed by one of his menservants that Anne had left for Hatfield nearly a week ago. Despite his recent behavior, likely inexcusable, toward her, Henry could not help but feel dismayed. She had not even bothered to tell him herself before she had left. He knew it was likely that she was lonely and that she resented having to send the children away, but surely _some_ word… it was true that he felt guilty. He had been unfair to Anne during her pregnancy, but he had meant what he had told his son: he desired no more children. Harry and Mary were enough. After he had lost his mother and then Katherine to childbirth, spent perhaps the best years of his life mourning her…why would he?

Clearly it had been what Anne wanted, and yes, she had proven his fears were meaningless…but nevertheless, something had changed between them in those long months. If Anne felt more deeply for their newborn children than for him, he had no one to blame but himself, and perhaps that was why he had sent them away so quickly. He did not know. But things had not improved even after they had been sent to Hatfield, and now Anne was simply gone.

He was confused and felt guilty, yet he had yet to do anything to remedy the situation. Truth be told, Henry was not sure that Anne would be willing to forgive him. She had made her terms quite clear: she would only marry him for him and that she had no desire to be Queen. While in his eyes she had grown accustomed to her role, he feared he had not given his true self to her for months now. He had tried to build a barrier so that, should she meet Katherine's fate, he would be protected…and after seven months of carefully distancing himself from the woman he loved, Henry found it–even now–to be incredibly difficult to tear down that barrier.

Sleep had come fitfully ever since he'd discovered his wife had fled from him. But it did, finally, come, and with it, of course, dreams came as well.

_Hatfield was alive with rosebushes and the greenest grass Henry had ever seen. It was a welcoming sight indeed, and the gentle breeze was gentle against his skin. From just within the house, he could hear the familiar shrieks of laughter from his little daughter. Mary–his true pearl! He had missed her since she had last come to court. When had that been, again? He could not rightly recall…but no matter! He was here now. Swinging down from his horse, he stood in the front path with arms opened to be welcomed by the laughing Princess who would come running out to greet him at any moment._

_Indeed, Mary emerged, looking as rosy-cheeked and joyful as ever. Yet just as she made to embrace her father, another figure came to stand behind her and put its hand on her shoulder._

_Both Mary and Henry lifted their gazes, but it was Henry who sucked in his breath in a sharp gasp. There stood none other than his beautiful Katherine. Her gown was pure white and her dark hair, unrestrained by hood or diadem, steamed down her back in sharp contrast. She looked ethereal, angelic…and his heart ached to see her. He knew, even in the dream, that she was not real…that she had long since died._

"_Katherine," he said weakly, taking a step forward. No, she must be. She could not fade away and be lost to him–again…_

_Katherine did not smile. Yet she was still so beautiful, even looking stern, almost frightening. "You forever look to me, Henry, when you know I am gone. But Mary, our child–she is alive." With a gentler expression, Katherine gazed down upon the child whose birth had spelled her own death. She stroked Mary's hair tenderly. Oh!, thought Henry, if only she had lived, if only Mary had known her…if only she could know her now…yes, she must be real. He closed his eyes for a moment, unwilling to admit that this was only temporary and that she would be gone again, whether it be when he woke or when God called her back to Heaven…_

"_I have made up for my neglect of Mary," he insisted finally, opening his eyes. "She knows how dear she is to me."_

_But Katherine looked far from satisfied. "You blamed her for my fate, Henry–do not deny it! And some part of you still does. And as for Queen Anne…" Suddenly, she appeared before him, too, though she was far more substantial than Katherine. Yet she, too, wore an expression in which Henry could find little compassion, only sadness and pain. That was right–Anne was at Hatfield now, with the children…all of the children…he had not wanted them. Did he, even now? "You resent her, though even you do not know it, for replacing me in your affections. You try to turn back; you try not to let me go. But you must, Henry, you must! For your own sake and the sakes of those who love you, you cannot forever turn your back on the future in hopes of resurrecting the past."_

_He stared at her, uncomprehending. Katherine was scolding him, his beloved! And scolding him for still loving her… "Henry–Henry, please…" This time, it was Anne's voice. She stepped towards him, her eyes pleading. "I love you–I have sacrificed for you…"_

_Had she? Henry thought of the would-be lover whose arms she had retreated to so early in their courtship, the unnamed man whose fate may have been grim if Anne had not, in fact, agreed to marry him. And her father–he had been cruel to her, insistent upon her becoming the King's wife…despite being "rescued" from Boleyn's hand, did his demands have something to do with her relenting and marrying him after all? Or perhaps she simply meant that she had sacrificed her desire for an ordinary, quiet life to become his Queen and the mother of children she could so rarely see. _

_What was he to say? Henry turned anxiously back to Katherine, only to find that, to his dismay, she had disappeared. No longer held back by her ghostly mother, Mary hurried forward to wrap her small arms around Anne. It was as though suddenly Henry was not there, for she knelt down to lift the girl into her arms, beaming at her. "How fares my lovely Mary on this fine day?" she asked, kissing her cheek and eliciting a high-pitched giggle from the child. Henry could not help but smile as well. Mary had never know her mother; Anne was all she had._

"_And all you have," Katherine's voice whispered. It was little more than a breath against his ear, and she did not reappear, but he could almost sense her presence at his side. "They are yours, Henry; they have each been given to you, Mary and the others, and your Queen as well. But I–I am the Lord's. You must let Him have me, as He will someday have us all. There is no need to forget, only to live…"_

"_Papa!" Mary, as though she had seen him standing there for the first time, finally came to him. She waited expectantly until he knelt down to embrace her. She was half of his Katherine, true, but Katherine was dead…and perhaps Katherine was also correct. The Lord had commended this child into his care…and into Anne's. And the Lord, Henry felt sure, did nothing without reason. As much as he had loved his first wife, did he not now love his second? He held Mary close, pondering this._

_Then, Anne stepped into the sunlight again as well. In her arms was one of their children–the boy-child with his golden hair. She looked as much like a vision as Katherine…but this vision was no dream. She was real, or she could become real. He could make things right._

_Setting Mary back on the ground, Henry closed the distance between himself and his wife. She was beaming, and looked so very beautiful…_

It was then that Henry woke, suddenly, to sunlight steaming in the windows. It took him a moment to remember that he was in his bedchamber at Whitehall, not at Hatfield…but that, too, could be remedied. Katherine's words–her voice had been so true, as though she had really spoken to him!–echoed in his mind. There was no need to forget her, only to live. That meant going to Hatfield; it meant reconciling with his wife. He was out of bed in an instant, wanting nothing more than to be gone, and now. Anne and Katherine's images filled his mind, their voices echoing there…live…he must do that, and let his family do it as well. He knew he must demolish the divide he had constructed, and he must not put it off any longer. He simply hoped that the real woman would be as receptive as the dream woman had been.

_Anne…_ He could imagine her, but it felt as though it would take ages to actually reach her. Reuniting physically was only the first step…

His bleary-eyed manservant was only now sitting up, rubbing his eyes. But Henry was never inclined to be a patient man, especially not now. "You, man–order them to ready my horse at once!" he shouted.

He would go to Hatfield. He would listen to Katherine and in so doing, try to give her up, at last, to God.

* * *

"Your Majesty…"

Nan Saville knocked hesitantly on the door to Anne's bedchamber. Since George Boleyn had arrived, it seemed that her mistress had regained some sense of self-worth, and she had spent the morning in Princess Mary's company. It was perhaps the first time she had not been forced to retreat to her own children's rooms in order to weep without her stepdaughter seeing the tears. Nan suspected that she had wept quite enough into George's shoulder the previous day. No doubt the King's betrayal still stung, but she had at least overcome it–or at least, Nan hoped so. There was nothing she could do about His Majesty's poor decisions except live with them, and she could not hide herself at Hatfield forever, after all…

Curious, Anne looked up. For her part, she was delighted to be reunited with her brother. George had become less of a pawn of their father and more his own man in the past year, and Anne could not have loved him more for it. He was finally, truly the brother she had always needed him to be. He could hardly challenge her husband to defend her honor–not that she would have wanted him to–but he had offered appropriately vehement reactions to the news that his royal brother-in-law had sought another woman's company in his bed.

"Yes, Nan? What is it?"

"There is…you have a visitor…" Nan seemed to the Queen unusually pale and nervous. She wanted to ask who this visitor was, and how they knew to call upon her here at Hatfield already, for she doubted it could or would be some simple country man or woman, though the common people around Hatfield she assumed did indeed know of her presence.

But she was not given the opportunity. Instead, her visitor stepped into the doorway behind Nan, and Anne's eyes widened at once. It was none other than her husband. Why was he here? What desire did he have to see her? Clearly he was more interested in others…his love for her had waned quickly, and now she was to be trapped in a treacherous, loveless marriage for the rest of her–or his–days. Anne stood up at once. She did not want him here, not after what he had done! And he knew–he knew what he had done! No wonder he looked so downtrodden, so guilty. Perhaps he had come to tell her that it was all a mistake. She had heard of marriages easily and swiftly annulled by the Pope. Theirs could be little difference…he could say he had, in fact, had an affair with her sister and that they were thus too closely related, or some other nonsense…he could marry his lover…

Henry spoke first, before she could demand an explanation or tell him that she did not want him there.

"Anne…Anne, sweetheart, I have wronged you, I know it…but I have come here to apologize," he began, looking appropriately abashed. She pressed her lips together as she listened. Wronged her, indeed! Humiliated her! Hurt her!

"First tell me this," she said, her voice even but soft, barely above a whisper, "who is she?"

His expression changed to be one of genuine surprise. "Who is…who, sweetheart?"

Her fury bubbled over. She took several steps forward. Both of her slender hands were clenched tightly into fists, and she found that she trembled from the force of her anger. _Who is who? _And he called her "sweetheart," as though nothing was amiss with them! "You know who, Henry–who is your _whore_?" She hissed the words this time, though she felt like weeping again. He was going to apologize to her, was he? And play dumb? How dare he! He was the King, but that did not give him license to break her heart into so many pieces when it was, in truth, so fragile after all the neglect she had suffered during her pregnancy.

"My–my what? Anne…" He sounded so perplexed, and it hurt her still more. Henry was driving a stake through her heart, pretending like this! Could he not see it? Better if he would admit it and tell hr that the woman meant nothing than…than this!

She wheeled on him again, but this time her blue eyes were filled with tears, despite herself. "Do not lie to me, Henry! I heard her–they would not admit me, and I know why; you were in bed with…with _her_!" Her voice turned shrill and broke. It was all she could do not to dissolve into true tears. No, she had to stand her ground, though she felt foolish not even knowing who the woman had been. She had no idea–she had heard only her laughter, and had not waited to be proven right, to hear the gossip…

Henry was shaking his head. He reached out a hand grab her arm, but she shook him off. His brows furrowed for a moment, perhaps in anger, but he swallowed hard and spoke again, his voice as reasonable as she supposed he could make it. He was going to chide her about bearing such things, for all Kings took mistresses… "My love, do you think that I would dream…I have taken no lover," he said emphatically. "I swear to you!"

"Then who was the woman, and for God's sake Henry, if she was not–not in your _bed,_ why was I not permitted entrance?" she demanded. She was torn between a desperate need to believe him and an equally powerful urge to stubbornly deny that he was telling her the truth.

"Margaret. She requested that we not be disturbed…I wanted to humor her," Henry replied. He still sounded quite bewildered.

Anne studied his face skeptically. Was he being honest with her? But why would he lie? He had not been interested in restoring their relationship after their children had been born, so why now? She had so many questions, but if he was indeed being truthful…she could forgive him. She just wanted him back, her Henry. She knew she ought to be harder on him, regardless of whether or not he had taken a lover. She ought to make him pay for all those months, all the pain…but she had missed him so badly. If he was willing to return to her now… The angry tears had subsided, only to be replaced by new ones, though this time Anne felt more confused than she did anything. Could she believe him? Should she? And as for forgiving him…

"Anne, I have admitted my sister and no other into my chambers; certainly no lover!"

This time when he reached for her, she did not resist. She did not twist away from him. She let him draw her close, and though she did not return his embrace, she rested her head on his shoulder and let her tears fall where they would. Henry was all she needed, really, to be happy…and she had not been truly happy for so long. He had rejected her from the moment she'd announced her pregnancy. But that seemed to finally be over. He was here, now, and there were many things they needed to discuss…but there would be a time for that. They would patch the tears in their bond. They had to–Anne did not know how she could keep living, either as simply Anne or as the Queen of England, without his love and his support. She still did not know if she trusted his word completely…but even if he had lied, his remorse for turning his back on her in the recent past seemed genuine enough.

She could not have said how long they stayed like that, so close. But finally Henry stepped away, smiling uncertainly. "Are there not children who ought to be reunited with their father?"

He held out his hand; Anne stared at it for a moment, that rough palm, before laying her own hand within it. His fingers closed around hers, and she finally gave him a small, timid smile. Mary would be delighted to see him. And their son and daughter…perhaps this time, Henry would show them the love they deserved.

Nan Saville stayed behind as the King and Queen stepped hand-in-hand into the corridor beyond. She did not know what to think of the whole matter; she did not know what her dear mistress could be thinking or feeling, or how long it would truly take the royal couple to reconcile. But in that moment, she supposed the future did not matter. The Princess Mary certainly did not think so, for Nan could hear her crying "Papa! Papa!" from somewhere else in the house. It brought a smile to her face.

They could live only in the present, and in this moment, that was for the best.

_Remember to leave a review! _


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: **Not sure how I feel about this chapter, to be honest. Let me know what you think and where you'd like to see the story go next! It should be longer...but I ran out of things to write without going into material for the next chapter

* * *

**April 1529  
Hatfield House**

The Prince of Wales was now nearly a man, though he oftentimes still felt like a child. It was hard for any of them to imagine, least of all his father who was still hale and almost young, that he had been born eighteen years previous. He was a strong, brave, intelligent young man, the best heir anyone could hope to have. He did both the King and the late Queen Katherine plenty of credit. He knew, not to sound conceited, that his mother would be proud of him if she could see him now, because he had always done everything–secretly–to make her proud. He believed strongly in God and prayed often; he loved his siblings dearly, honored his father the King, and respected his stepmother Anne. He had honed his mind, indeed was still in lessons, to the best of his ability. And as for his body, he had trained until he felt as though he could train no more. He certainly hoped that, if the need arose, he would be able to use that strength for good.

Only one thing was "wrong" with Prince Harry's life, and that was his upcoming marriage. It had been almost ten years since the English court had traveled to France, since his father had first seen Lady Anne Boleyn there, and since Harry himself had met the King of France's daughter Charlotte. She was only a few months younger than his sister Mary, but in his memory she was a tiny and fragile thing. And yet now…now, their wedding date had all but been set. Sometime next year, Princess Charlotte would sail to England and become the Princess of Wales as Harry's mother had once sailed from Spain to marry his uncle Arthur.

He had known this would happen. He had expected it. But if he had ever wanted it, even in a boyish kind of way, he did not want it now. Harry was in love, but Charlotte was hardly the object of his affection. After all these years, he had finally admitted it to himself. He was in love, as much as his father was in love with the Queen. His love was some three years his senior, and he knew it was fortunate that she was not herself married yet–she was, after all, twenty-one by now. Still he loved her; he wanted her for his own. Sometimes Harry's thoughts were consumed by this. He wanted to marry her no matter what the cost. If he had not already been betrothed to Charlotte, would his father agree? Would the Queen intercede on his behalf?

But he was.

It was not as if breaking the betrothal would break the French alliance, for his sister Mary was to be wed to the Duc d'Orleans, Henri–Charlotte's brother. So the alliance could be salvaged. But Harry…he would feel guilty. He would feel as though he had betrayed her. The frail child in his memory had transformed, judging by the portrait they had received, into a delicately pretty girl whose Latin was sweet and flowery when she wrote to Harry, as she had more and more frequently as the years passed .

Yet how could he help but compare her to his Jane? True, _Jane_ was a plain kind of name, an English maiden's name and not a French Princess'. True, a French princess was the type of girl deemed more fit to bear the next King of England. But his father was wed to a wildly popular Queen who was of no remarkable birth. She was herself an Englishwoman of humble origins, and the people loved her. What's more, the King loved her–the court loved her–Mary loved her. Anne had been perhaps the best thing ever to happen to the Tudor dynasty, though Henry claimed that he had never truly fallen out of love with the beautiful Spanish princess who had been his bride and borne him two wonderful children. Harry could think of no reason Jane would not be equally popular. She lacked Anne's exotic beauty and her charisma, of course; perhaps she even lacked her cleverness. Nevertheless, Harry loved her. He wanted to marry her so badly.

He wanted what Henry and Anne had; he wanted that easiness, the sweetness, he saw between his father and stepmother. As a boy, he had resented Anne a bit for replacing his mother. Now he only envied her a little for having what he wanted Jane to have just as he envied his father for what he had found.

_Father… _No, no, he should begin formally–subject to King, not son to father. _Your Majesty…_

Harry raked a hand through his dark hair. As the day approached when the wedding date would be set and Charlotte would be sent to England, he was becoming more and more desperate. Here at Hatfield, he saw his best chance. The King relaxed here. He spent his time enjoying the company of his children without worrying about the good of his realm. If Harry was going to speak to him about matters of the heart, it had to be at Hatfield.

First, however, he must speak to Jane.

"They must suspect something," the young woman whispered as the Prince of Wales pulled her away; he did not even have to ask these days. A touch on the shoulder, a look–any of them would do it. Mary either never noticed or did not ask questions. She all but hero-worshiped her brother. As for the rest of the ladies, who were they to cross and question the King's son, the boy who would someday be King himself? Still, Jane fretted. She was that kind of girl, having learned her place long ago and never feeling quite comfortable out of it. Her daydreams of marrying Prince Harry had hardly gone away, but even as their forbidden courtship had progressed over the past few years, she had made every attempt to be realistic.

The look of disdain upon Harry's face made his thoughts on the matter very clear. Mary's other maids-of-honor meant nothing to him, nor could they possibly interfere in his life. Jane was one of the senior girls in Mary's service now anyway, one of those Mary trusted most. She could not be reprimanded by the likes of, say, Mistress Cecily or Mistress Bess. "I would protect you against their suspicions," he assured her.

They walked together to Jane's own small chamber; she had spent long enough in Mary's service to share it with only one other girl and their chambermaid, but of course that girl was spending the afternoon in Mary's company. They would not be disturbed, of that Harry was sure. When he said he would protect her, he meant it–and against anyone. Including, if need be, his own father. Harry knew he loved her. It wasn't some foolish adolescent affection. He _knew._ And more and more, he saw that should he marry Charlotte, the union would be miserable for them both simply because despite everything, Harry would end up having to be near the woman he loved, having to spend time in her company…in her bed, if it came to that. What a horrible disappointment that would be to women like his mother, his sister and his stepmother. No, if it could be helped, he would marry Jane and Jane alone.

"I mean to ask my father about the betrothal," he said once the door was shut behind her. "About ending it, Jane."

Her near-colorless face lost what blood it had. Her doe's eyes widened in shock and she began to shake her fair head. "No, no, Your Highness–"

"Harry," he corrected tenderly. That agreement had been made long ago!

"Harry," she conceded, her voice quavering. "Your father–the King of France–it is your duty. I cannot marry you. I'm…I'm Lady Jane. I am no one, Harry, and you are the future King and the French princess is your future Queen." She could write now, and read a little, but she was not fit to be Queen. She was a commoner like Queen Anne had been, but Jane was not such a fool to think that she was anything compared to the lovely and gracious lady who had won the King's heart. She had idolized Anne from the moment she laid eyes on her but she knew she would never be anything like her. She had remained after all these years simply Lady Jane Seymour, the unremarkable daughter of Sir John. She was not exceedingly beautiful nor witty nor anything at all, and that was probably why she had yet to be courted…well, by anyone but the Prince of Wales, and that cause was long-lost.

He looked dismayed by her skepticism. Reaching out, he cupped her cheek gently in his hand. "Jane, I will not lose you. I love you! Don't you know that? Don't you love me?" Harry was enough of a Tudor to expect the answer to be "yes, of course." She had to love him. He thought of those sweet, stolen kisses–few and far between–and smiled. Stolen no longer…

"Please, this is gone…far enough…" Jane shuddered to think of what the King would think. Marrying Harry was a happy daydream–but never a reality. It could not be. She almost did not want it to be, because it was frightening to think of everyone's expectations, everyone's eyes. She would not be a nothing anymore. But she would, unlike Queen Anne, be expected to provide him with healthy heirs, to be beautiful and gracious and kind and regal and…no, no, she couldn't do it! Mary Tudor, her mistress, had been born to be a Queen–or at least a very high lady. Even Anne Boleyn had somehow been born into that role. But Jane? Never.

It was not even that she did not want it, as Anne had not wanted it. She was simply frightened. She had never been noticed before, hardly even by her mistress. Harry's had been the only attention she had ever enjoyed. At home she had simply been Jane, another child. Here she was simply another lady. And while she would love to be Harry's wife, she was not sure she wanted diplomatic disputes for her sake. She was not sure she wanted the King to really know she existed…at least not in this way. If Princess Charlotte had never existed things would be different, but she did and Jane could not see how Harry would wriggle out of his obligation to her. He had mentioned her in passing occasionally and to Jane she sounded like one of Eleanor's dolls–hardly a real girl. But real enough. If Harry broke the betrothal, Jane's world would go on, but that French princess' may not…

"You must love me," Harry said, sounding desperate. "Don't you, Jane?"

Love. What was that? Jane knew that Harry loved _her_. The way he looked at her, the way he said her name, all of it reminded her of how the King spoke to the Queen and how he looked at her…all of it. Yet Jane was always too frightened to really return his affection. She always imagined them being caught and her losing her position or the King finding out–or the Queen, or Princess Mary… She daydreamed about him, but was that love?

His eyes shone with pain. "Jane." Her name was a pleading prayer.

"Harry…your mother…the Queen…your sister, none of them would think I am worth breaking your betrothal for. That French girl will make you a fine wife and queen, I am sure," she muttered, looking away from him. Yet for all her reluctance, part of Jane's mind screamed at her, _What are you doing? This is your chance, girl! He loves you and his father–his father cherishes him. His father would do anything for him. You must not throw this away!_

For perhaps the first time in his life, Harry snorted. "I don't care what they would think, and besides–you don't know that. Mary loves you."

_Mary barely notices me, _thought Jane.

"I do not want 'that French girl,' Jane. Only you. From that day you learned how to write your own name, I think I've known." His eyes now blazed with something else: determination. It frightened her a bit. He was enough of a Tudor, this boy, to know what he wanted and to find some way to get it. How far would he go for her sake? She tried to imagine a wedding again, this time seriously, and found she could not. It was a fine girl's fantasy, but to really marry him and become Jane, Princess of Wales? How could she do such a thing? People–her own family!–would finally pay her some mind of course… She looked away from him. It was impossible. "Our people hate foreigners. God knows why they adored my mother, but Jane, don't you see? They would love another lovely English Queen!"

"I am not anything like Queen Anne, Harry. I–I am _scared _of being Queen!"

He stood in silence once she had said this, staring at her for several long moments. Then a slow smile crept onto his face, tugging the corners of his lips up. He went to her side, took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss, a boy's kiss still, but it made Jane's knees feel weak. When she was so close to him, she could not deny him or turn her face away.

"I know what to do, sweet Jane. Leave it to me." As though she would have done anything else. But the idea of him having a plan frightened her, too. Had she not heard anything she had said?

Dismayed, she watched as he turned away from her and approached the door. "Harry!" she moaned. "Your Highn–" He was gone before she could say anything else. Her protests meant nothing. She was the object of his desire, and he must have made up his mind before he had come to see her. Was he really going to ask for this near ten-year-long betrothal to be broken in order to marry some plain English girl when it had nearly come to fruition? Jane closed her eyes. This was Harry's idea, but if anything went amiss and the King refused to humor her son, she feared the punishment would be hers.

* * *

The youngest royal children were the delight of their mother the Queen. When she and Henry came to Hatfield, she spent every waking moment in their company. Her dear stepdaughter had long since grown tired of spending her time in their company, if only because Anne's attention was so thoroughly devoted to her own children. She did not mean it cruelly; she still loved Mary and always had. Yet Edward and Eleanor were Anne's darlings. They were her own. As nightmarish as the nine months she had carried them had been, and as cruelly as Henry's neglect during the first months of their short life had been, things had been smoothed out now. Things were better. They were a family at Hatfield and they did not have to worry about being King or Queen or anything, really. She came as often as she could, and whenever he could get away Henry joined her, because in truth he was just as glad to be here in the country with his children. More than that, he was glad to see Anne come alive here.

He knew, as perhaps no one else knew, how difficult it had been for her–there had only been one other pregnancy, though in all fairness they had not been married a terribly long time. Three years ago, three short years. Anne had been transformed, especially since this time Henry did his best to be enthusiastic and supportive. She floated about Whitehall as if in a dream…and in the end, it was a dream. She had miscarried. How vividly he remembered that night when Anne's sobbing woke him. He had called for her ladies, for a physician, but it had been in vain.

Since then, there had been no other pregnancies. Henry himself did not rue this, though he knew Anne longed for another little child. The eldest children of her own body were barely six years old, while at eighteen, Prince Harry was poised to take the throne if need be.

"Shall I have to go marry a foreign prince someday like Mary?" Little Eleanor was leaning up against her father, who absently stroked her dark hair. Nell was so like her mother, he thought fondly. Graceful, gifted in music and languages… He would lose Mary soon, he knew, and it hurt to think of it. Mary was a feisty girl and she reminded him as much of Katherine as Nell did of Anne. Yet he could not keep her forever, no matter how much pain it would cause him to see her leave England's shores–perhaps never to return.

"Perhaps," Henry said. "Perhaps you shall find a man worthy of you here." He was only teasing, for he could think of no one who was not a prince who would be good enough for either of his daughters. Margaret had been happy enough with Brandon, of course, and he had allowed that match–but there was also Nell's diplomatic value to consider. She was not some object he could barter away, he knew that. Princesses were something like diplomatic currency for European royals, however. He knew that too. And Anne must know that. She would not object, if he found a good enough match, would she?

The Duke of York sat in his mother's arms, his head leaning against her shoulder. He was watching his sister with inquisitive blue eyes. Prince Edward had always been a frail child, though he was growing stronger with each passing year. Eleanor led and he followed. They were as different as they were close.

Anne kissed the top of his golden head. Her sweet boy! How she loved him. He did not remind her of Henry, though he worriedly said sometimes that Edward was far too much like Arthur. She did not think anything would happen to their son–at least she prayed that it would not. He was too precious to her. There were no babies she could cradle in her arms now, though she had not entirely given up hope of one more blessing from the Lord. She had only Edward and his sister to content her.

At that moment, the door to the royal nursery opened to reveal Prince Harry. If her own son was nothing like his father, Harry was an exact replica. He was tall and proud, with a handsome face, dark hair and glinting blue eyes. She smiled to see him, though the two of them had never been close. He respected her and she him–but unlike with Mary, Anne did not feel much like Harry's mother. That was fine, even understandable. He still held his faint memories of Katherine close to his heart, and who could blame him for such a thing? Had her own father remarried, Anne did not think she would have let the memory of Elizabeth Boleyn, foggy as it was, go.

"Harry!" Eleanor shrieked happily. Like Mary, she adored her oldest brother.

It was as if he had not heard her; Harry looked only at his father. He dropped to one knee in deference. Henry raised a brow, glancing at his wife with an unspoken question. Anne lifted her shoulders briefly. She had no idea what had gotten into her stepson. At least not until he spoke.

"My lord father…I cannot marry the Princess Charlotte. I love another," he said in a rush. "But you see, the girl I love has no desire to be Queen. In fact, she fears that kind of responsibility. So I have made up my mind: I will sacrifice my right to the throne to marry her. I give it instead to Edward." He finished, turning his face to his little brother.

Henry began to laugh. It was the wrong thing to do. Anne knew it, but she could hardly silence him. Harry's expression darkened. It was clear that he had thought about this–though perhaps not as much as he should have. He must truly love this girl even to entertain the notion of renouncing his claim to the throne…but to say it in this way. Why? Did he think Henry would simply accept his choice? Edward–Edward was not fit to take the throne, certainly not if anything happened to Henry in the near future, especially not when he had a strong and intelligent brother almost twelve years his senior in line ahead of him! Anne may have imagined that in her fantasies sometimes, a true English King of England…but Edward? No, her son was not the boy. She imagined that pressure crushing him. Harry had been the beloved heir from the moment of his birth. He could not simply abandon his place. Her grip tightened a bit around Edward.

"Harry," she said gently, "you must reconsider."

"You are the Prince of Wales. God has given you a duty." His father's voice was stern. Perhaps this stung for him doubly; he was a second son. _But it was the firstborn not fit for the throne in he end, _Anne mused sadly. "You have been trained in Kingship! Your mother–"

Silence engulfed them and sorrow settled upon Anne's shoulders. Katherine. She was forever the ghost that haunted Henry's soul, though the situation was not now nearly as grim as it had once been. It was wise not to mention the first Queen, for her name had a terrible impact on Henry. Anne no longer felt envy, only pity. It was some comfort, she supposed, to know that if she were to die, she would likely cast a similar shadow on his heart. Eleanor tilted her face up to study her father curiously. When he failed to notice her, she looked across the room to her mother, but Anne's attention was focused on her husband as well. _Oh my love._

Anne released Edward, placing another tender kiss on the top of his head. She gracefully gathered herself up and went to the Prince of Wales' side. He looked as though he was trying to think of a good protest, but she shook her dark head, her lips a thin line. She knew she was only some eleven years his senior, but she felt that she knew Henry better than most could.

Harry reluctantly allowed his stepmother to lead him out, though his face was set sternly as though to assure the Queen that she could not change his mind.

"You must not do this thing, Harry. You must reconsider," she repeated, raising a hand to keep him quiet. "I understand your lady's misgivings–but your father is not hard-hearted. You are his darling child, you must know that. He will not begrudge you love in the end. Let me speak to him–and to the girl. They will both see." Anne offered him a kind, maternal smile. He was not her son, but he was Henry's son–and indeed, she meant what she said. He was Henry's favorite. This renunciation would hurt him more than anything had since Katherine's death. Did Harry not see that? Did he want that? Had his father wronged him that he felt the need for…for revenge? Yet the young man's face did not soften. It remained set, and Anne sighed. "My son is not the heir men dream of, but you are, Harry. Edward–he is not a King. You are. This will kill your father."

"I will not do this to her," Harry said firmly.

"But you will do it to your father and your brother? To England? Does she want that? What is _she_ willing to do for _you,_ Harry?" Anne knew that kind of reluctance all too well. She had done battle with those demons and ultimately, she had decided that her love for Henry was strong enough for her to live with being Queen. And it had been worth it in the end.

"Harry, has she told you that she loves you? Has she asked you to do this?"

Pain was in his face. He looked away from her. "You do no credit to your own son, madam. Look to him first."

"Harry–"

The Prince did not look at her again and set off down the corridor. His eyes were downcast as he went. Anne's heart fell. There was no need for this nonsense–she knew love did strange things to people, but this was sheer foolishness! Still, perhaps it was better to let him go and cool his heels. Perhaps Mary would talk some sense into him. When she returned to the children's apartments, she saw that Henry's face was tearstained. Eleanor had lifted a hand to wipe them away and it remained pressed against his cheek.

"Papa," the girl whispered, "don't cry, Papa."

At this, Henry wrapped his arms around his younger daughter and held her tightly, as though she was Katherine herself and he could hold onto her this time. His tears did not continue, however, and he tilted his chin up to look at Anne. She was more concerned about Edward in a way–his little face was still blank–but her heart ached for her husband as well. "Anne, he cannot…" Henry murmured. "Find the girl, whoever she is. Send her away. Give her father money. Anything." Again, Anne felt her hopes fall. The King was not going to permit this relationship from continuing–not unless Harry changed his mind and agreed to remain the Prince of Wales. _Either way, the throne is yours, Harry, _Anne thought sadly. _Yours, not Edward's._

"Henry, give him time," she ventured.

"No. He is–he is hers. I will not lose him." That deep-seeded grief returned to his voice for the first time in a long time. It burned in Anne's heart like ice. She opened her mouth to say something, anything–to reassure him–but he let go of Eleanor and then swept out of the room.

Now there were tears in Nell's eyes. "Does Papa love us less? We are not Harry's mama's children," she whimpered uncertainly, her eyes begging her mother to tell her–even to lie to her–that the King loved them not one jot less. But Anne wondered if it was not truer than she wanted to think, that Henry loved his children by Katherine more even now. She could not betray these suspicions to them; what mother would?

"Of course not, darling, of course not," Anne soothed. "You are both just as special to your father as Harry and Mary. Come here, Edward my love–"

Her words failed; her voice died. She had turned to welcome Edward into an embrace, to hold both of her children close to her and ease their fears, but the little boy was slumped against the window in the place where he had sat only minutes ago with his mother. Anne rushed to his side, her heart beating altogether too fast and hard in her breast. She could hear its pounding ringing in her ears. "Edward…" His brow was damp; his blonde hair had gone dark with the perspiration and was plastered to it. Eleanor lingered behind her, looking over her mother's shoulder anxiously. "Edward, darling, you mustn't sleep in the middle of the day."

She had thought he had merely been surprised by his brother's announcement. If he had been feeling ill, why had he said nothing? She tried to remind herself not to panic, but as she shook Edward's shoulder the child did not stir.

"Edward!"

This time, his name escaped Anne's lips as a desperate shriek. Attendants came running at once. They found the Queen cradling the limp, feverish body of her little son there. Someone called for the King, but others discouraged him from coming lest he fall prey to whatever illness now plagued the Duke of York. Lady Bryan, their governess, had to all but drag Nell away even as she cried her brother's name. They could do nothing to relax Anne's hold on her son, nor could anyone comfort her or stop the flow of her bitter tears.

**May 1529  
Whitehall**

The atmosphere at Whitehall was subdued at best. Everyone had been in an uproar after poor Prince Edward had fallen ill, fearing the plague, but in reality it had been some common childhood ailment–the same kind from which Katherine's children had quickly recovered. The King's younger daughter Eleanor had not escaped unscathed, but her illness had been far more brief, nor had she suffered as immediately or as severely as her brother. The court had only relaxed when they realized they would not be struck down–at least not yet–by the sweat or any other sicknesses that year, but it did not change the fact that the King's younger son lay upon his bed in the country, unconscious. The Queen had all but disappeared from view at court, and when she did appear none saw her face. Cardinal Wolsey, though his own health was not what it had once been, managed nearly all of the King's affairs, leaving Henry to spend most of his time with his secluded wife.

Prince Harry, it was rumored, had tried to abandon his place as heir. He had tried to give it to his brother, they said, on the same day the boy had fallen ill. _It was the shock, the poor child! Always looking up to his brother…_ That was, at least, what some courtiers said.

It was impossible to tell what Henry thought of the matter to most of the court since he was so often in Anne's company or doing something to distract himself–riding, hunting, hawking, archery, anything that could keep his mind off of his younger son. Henry himself had taken the news as a terrible blow, as could be expected, but this time he managed to conceal his grief for the most part except from Anne. Imagine–his son's last waking memory of him was likely him storming out, implying that Harry was more valuable than either Edward or Nell.

And as for Harry…they had not spoken of the matter again, nor did he suppose they would. When he had told Jane of his intentions, she had been far bolder than he had remembered her ever being before, called him a fool and refused to speak to him again. And at any rate, he could not step down if Edward was not capable of taking his place. He remembered with bitterness what he had said to his stepmother–_You do no credit to your own son, madam._ Yet Anne had had the better measure of him than Harry; she knew that he was not able to take the throne…but she had not known that he would soon be so close to death. No one could possibly have known. His father had sent him immediately to Richmond, and it was there that he'd received Jane's farewell letter. It had been short and tear-stained.

_I hope this finds you well, _it had read, _for it shall be the last you ever hear of me. Marry your Princess and find happiness with her. May you become a wiser King under her care than you have ever been a Prince under mine._

It had gone unsigned, unaddressed, but he had known and he had wept.

Many at court now whispered something more sinister: that enemies of the Queen had known of Harry's plan (though that was foolishness; he had come up with it and told no one before telling his father). That _Mary_ had known and had, in her spite, poisoned her brother Edward to prevent a child of Anne's from taking the throne before her mother's son. The gossip was malicious and it was lucky that neither the King nor his wife got wind of it. Even in their grief, either of them would have been sure to defend Henry's elder daughter to the last breath.

Anne was terribly angry with God, and when the King was away, it was George Boleyn who had to find some way to ease his sister's pain. This was no easy task. He had found that she had little empathy in her present state. Reminding her that many women lost their children frequently did nothing, only angered her further; reminding her, even, that God _Himself _had sacrificed His only son made her rage. Ultimately, all George could do was be there. He held her when sobs wracked her body and agreed with whatever she said when she raged. It was all he could do. Henry must have fared better, he supposed, but this was something to which Henry had a direct connection and his brother-in-law did not. In this case, Anne must have known and acknowledged that Prince Edward was part of her husband and herself, but was not also part of her brother. Perhaps the King did not offer her comfort; perhaps he had known from the beginning to simply sit with her. Or perhaps he had none to offer.

"He must recover, George," Anne muttered, staring out the window, the already-dim light of her chambers dimmed further by her dark veil. "God _must_ heal him!"

Would her grief abate more easily if she had another child–a different child besides Eleanor, little Nell who had been born just moments after her sick brother? George knew she would give anything to have borne that miscarried child alive. The miscarriage had changed something about Anne, and whether it had been for better or worse–whether it had hardened or softened his beloved sister–he could not say.

He said nothing. She did not seem to expect him to. She only wanted someone to say these things to, he supposed. Before, he had wanted him to tell her that perhaps she had overreacted–perhaps Henry had not, in fact, been seeing another woman–and in fact, he had not. Yet this time there was no reconciliation to be had. There was simply an emptiness in Anne's heart which George for the first time in their lives could not fill for her. No words, no embrace, nothing could repair this loss. Uneless the Prince recovered, he doubted that hole would ever be filled. Many children died before their time, but Anne, he supposed, had seen herself as immune to that tragedy. Her son was no mere boy but a Prince. _A dying Prince, _George thought, biting back a sigh. On the occasions he had spent with his niece and nephew and sister at Hatfield, he had enjoyed spoiling them…It seemed wrong to think of Eleanor without her brother, but it could soon come to that.

If he had died, leaving Anne behind…they were not twins; they had not shared their mother's womb–but it was still an unbearable thought.

"Is this the price, George, for not having–having lost them then? Even one of them? I nearly miscarried, and now…" _I nearly wish I had. _No, that was untrue. Anne would not have sacrificed a moment with Edward, especially not if he were to miraculously recover from this ailment. She was having one horrible, agonizing thought, however, that made her feel truly heartless: better that Mary should have died all those years ago than little Edward die now. Better dead Katherine's child, Katherine who could never feel the agony of such a loss. She should not think so herself; she would have been devastated, to say nothing of Henry. Mary was dear to her, though a bit less dear now that Anne had her own children to dote on, and losing her would have been sad. Yet she had never carried Mary within her own body…never seen her learning to walk and to speak…

Yet really, what kind of mother had she been to her darling children up to this point? Anne had managed to give them life–though barely. She had not done much else; they had been fed at some other woman's breast, taught to do everything–walk, speak, read, write–by others. They saw the Queen infrequently, perhaps six or seven times a year at Hatfield and once or twice when they came to court for Christmastide or their birthday. With what clarity Anne remembered that first dreadful parting, and what it meant: that Edward Tudor was barely her son at all. He was simply a child raised amongst a swarm of loving women who recognized Anne as his mother in name only. This idea was worse than any other. She would rather be angry at God or anyone, for that matter–anyone but herself, or Henry. How she had longed to keep her children with her. How she had longed to suckle them herself. It was too late for such things, of course. What could she do now but weep?

This was why Anne had dreaded accepting Henry, dreaded accepting the position she must take to be his wife. She had not wanted to be Queen simply because it meant her dream of a family could never _truly_ be.

Yet there was, perhaps, something she could do. She could not replay her children's infancy, but if Edward recovered–_oh God, please…–_if her sweet boy was restored to good health, could she not make up for the time she had lost? They were young yet. Surely no one would blame her for requesting that they come live at Whitehall, at least for a little while. She could be a truer mother to them, and if any more children were given to her in the future, she would make sure they saw her as Mama first and Queen second.

If this was a sign or a test from God, it was the least she could do.

Was there any reason for Henry to refuse? Court may be dirty and dangerous, but who would dare to lay a finger on the King's children? Children…daughters. Yes. Perhaps Mary could accompany the twins to court. She would, after all, sail for France soon enough; she was going to have to leave the childhood haven of Hatfield behind at some point and adjust to court life–which Anne knew was far different not only from the English countryside but also even from the English court itself. Why not let the King keep Katherine's daughter close for as long as he could, and Anne's children as well?

The Prince of Wales could stay at Richmond and rot for all Anne cared. She had not yet found the capacity to forgive Harry for trying to shirk his duties and place the burden upon Edward's shoulders. Perhaps he felt guilty now that his brother had died. If so, good. He ought to feel that way! _Edward fell ill thinking he would have to be King, _she thought, _and that his father loved Harry more._ Anne adored her son, but she had meant what she said–he had not been born to be the King of England. _Perhaps this, too, is a sign from God. Perhaps he is demanding that Harry remember his place…_

"I shall make everything up to them, once he is well again. Oh George–he must. He must get well…" Anne looked at her brother with sad and desperate eyes. She allowed him to gather her in his arms and simply to hold her. He did not know what exactly she planned to make up to her son, should he indeed overcome his illness. He knew only that he was praying as fervently as anyone that his nephew did so, though his reasons were selfish he supposed–he wanted his beautiful, cheerful sister back, and feared if Edward should truly die, he would never have her again. And the King…he feared what it might do to Henry, to lose a child. Everyone had seen how badly the Princess Mary's illness had affected him all those years ago. So far, he had handled Edward's far better…but Mary had been no worse for wear. What about the little Prince? If he were truly to die…

_Watch after him, Lord. Be with him…for England's sake, _George prayed, holding his sister more tightly to him as he did so.

**Hatfield**

Mary was unsure how to cope with her brother Edward's illness. She was fonder of Harry than of either of her other siblings. At thirteen, her opinions of things–including Edward and Eleanor–were beginning to change, but in her mind they were little more than invaders. They had stolen part of her household, and worse yet, they had stolen a good deal of her stepmother's love and attention. When the Queen came to Hatfield now, she devoted so much of her time to her own children, as though to remind Mary that she was indeed motherless, no matter how dear Anne Boleyn was to her. It made her a little bitter, she supposed, and that was unfair…to Edward, especially. He was a sweet child, one who accepted being doted upon–by his mother, by his ladies, anyone–but did not seek it out as Eleanor did. Nell was always eager for someone to pay mind to her. She pestered people with questions. Edward was not like that.

She had the horrible, sinful thought that if Edward died, she would be left here alone with Eleanor. She loved her sister, but she did not like her much. The irony of it, of course, was that Mary herself had been much like Nell at her age, always craving someone's attention. Perhaps if there were not nearly seven years between them, things would be different…

And what Harry had said…that he would sacrifice becoming King someday for the girl he loved. _The girl he loved. Not Princess Charlotte. Someone else… _

Had he meant it? If Edward died, he would have little choice unless he wanted to end the Tudor dynasty. Ever since that remarkable announcement, Mary had wondered why she could not be Queen instead–why must it be a son and not a daughter? Yet such things did not really matter. As far as Mary knew, there was no more talk of Harry turning his back on the throne. Her brother was back at Richmond, of course, and she had no way of asking him to explain in more detail. It hurt a bit that he had not come to her in the first place. She was young but she was no fool, no child who thought of life as a fairy story! Surely he could have sought her advice. In two years, perhaps less, she herself would be a foreign bride, would she not?

"Isn't there anything that can be done for him, Salisbury?" Mary asked quietly. Hatfield had been silent for a month now; no laughter ringing through the halls…nothing save perhaps little Nell's angry demands or her confused tears.

She had asked this question before and her dear governess had not had a good answer for her; she did not expect one now, either.

"We can only pray that the Lord will be merciful," Salisbury said, her voice dull. She remembered all too well when Mary lay in her own bed, unmoving, barely breathing. The child had been quick to recover then. Her brother was not, it seemed, made of the same mettle. She could only imagine the Queen's grief…to say nothing of little Nell. Her mistress did not care much for the other Princess in residence at Hatfield, Salisbury had known that for a long time, but she was fond of Queen Anne's little girl. She could be so very like Mary, and at other times so different. It was remarkable and it warmed the aging woman's heart, making her long for those sweet days of Mary's childhood. By now, she was a young woman and all too soon, Salisbury would lose her.

Did the Lord truly care about her family? Mary loved Him very much, as was only proper. She was a pious girl, though not as devoted as her mother had been–she could not know that, of course. Yet sometimes she questioned His will. Why had he taken her mother? Why was he now making her new mama so upset by threatening Edward? He was only a child!

She sighed and set aside her needlework. Thirteen was a tiring age. She longed for the days when she could be carefree, just a child; when "Princess" was simply a pretty title… "You are right, of course, dear Salisbury," she said. "I shall go sit with my brother."

Nell could use some company in her constant vigil. No one could seem to pry the child away from her brother, as though she thought their connection would be powerful enough to pull him back from the brink of death. They had been born together; he could not die without her. Hearing things such as that made Mary love her sister a bit more. She moved down the corridors that separated her part of the house from her siblings'. Before she arrived at Edward's bedchamber, however, she heard Nell's shrill voice.

"Edward, _Edward! _I knew you would never leave me_._"

Servants and maids-of-honor, alerted by the Princess' exclamations, came running. Even before they reached the door, however, they were crying "The Prince! The Prince lives! Praise God!"

They seemed not to notice her at all. No one stopped and asked her to verify her brother's condition. Mary smiled faintly but turned her back on them, all rushing to get a look at the newly-conscious Prince. Eleanor's giggles, sounding almost crazed, floated through the now-open door. A part of Mary urged her to stay and go in, to wish her brother well. A more powerful force moved her away, however. There would be joyful celebrations later in which she would join. Now, however, she felt strangely detached. For the first time, she truly felt like Katherine of Aragon's daughter rather than Anne's. It was a lonely, alienated sensation and she walked as quickly as she could back to Salisbury, trying to look genuinely happy. She was. But she could not banish her desire to cry as she wished that she, too, was one of Queen Anne's beloved children instead of a relic of the King's past.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	13. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: **To those of you who think that Anne is neglecting Mary, that was not my intention. She was naturally frightened for the sake of her only son, and I honestly believe that she would have a different––and yes, to some degree, a _stronger_ bond with her biological children. (Hormones and such, not to mention Anne is Anne. I think that's how she would be.) At any rate, hopefully you enjoy this chapter!

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**3 November 1530  
The Road to London**

Charlotte de Valois had been told for years that she would become the Princess of Wales, the future Queen of England. She was a delicate, almost fragile child even now, at fourteen; she had been the darling of her mother while Queen Claude still lived. Now she was the darling of no one–she had simply been sent away. The English Princess who was supposed to marry her brother Henri was months older than Charlotte, who had turned fourteen only last month, and yet she had not been sent to France. Some of her attendants whispered that King Henry was reluctant to let his first wife's only daughter go. That was not the case for her own father, Charlotte thought in dismay. He had truly loved her mother, but he would not hesitate to secure this alliance even if Charlotte still felt like a child.

The voyage had not been particularly long nor difficult other than crossing the Channel, which the sailors aboard their ship had assured Her Highness was always quite challenging. Now she was quite safely in England, but she already felt a million miles from the safe, comfortable life she had once known. Here no one would smile and remember her poor, crippled mother when they looked at her. They would not be gentle and kind, knowing that she was not possessed of great strength. No one would care; indeed, it might hurt her here in this foreign land. They would want a strong girl as their future Queen, not some weak French child.

And the Prince–Henry, like his father…no. He had asked her to call him Harry. That was what everyone called him, he had said. She must remember things like this. She must make a good impression. Yet did Harry feel anything for her at all, this strange English Prince? Charlotte did not remember him at all. They had met once, a very long time ago it seemed, though in reality nine years was not such a long time. She tried to picture the face of the boy she had met then, but Charlotte had no memories of that time at all. She had only stories to go by. Perhaps he remembered more, but nine years ago, she had been smaller and weaker than she was even now. She had heard people speak of Henri's future bride, Harry's older sister Mary–the girl was beautiful, they said.

Charlotte was no beauty. Pretty, perhaps…but not _desirable. _She knew all too well that she still _looked_ the part of a child. Part of her wondered why her father had decided that she was ready to be married. Fourteen may not be terribly young by the standards of diplomacy, but the King of France had seen his daughter frequently enough to know that she was hardly a woman, even if her monthly courses now came. Did he look at her and picture her swelling with child? No, Charlotte felt sure such a thing would kill her. She was not strong enough to bear Harry's children…not yet. Perhaps not ever.

If she returned home, however, what fate would befall her? Would she be sent to a nunnery? That life, she mused, might suit her better–she would not be able to see her brothers and sisters, but she would at least escape the madhouse that was life at court! She could lead a quiet life there, a safe life, with God and the memory of her mother.

She had yet to meet the King or his son, however, and there was no way of knowing what they would think of her until she did so. As frightened of this marriage as Charlotte was, she did so wish to please. She would hate to be a disappointment to anyone, and her mother had approved of this match, had she not? Surely if she had not had faith that her sweet Lottie could fulfill this role, she would have said something to her husband…and if the King was unwilling to heed his daughter's fears, she doubted that he would have ignored what Claude had to say. And her mother had borne children, she had been a good and dear Queen…so Charlotte could be as well. Yes. She would prove herself worthy of this task, despite the terror it struck into her heart.

_I will be a good wife to Prince Harry, _Maman. She hoped desperately that she could make that promise the truth, though she had no idea what a good wife did other than give her husband healthy children. Why had her father loved her mother so? Was it because of all of them? And the King of England–why had he gone mad with grief over his first wife? What had she done to make him love her?

"Please, sir," she ventured softly; her voice barely caught the attention of the Englishman–she had already forgotten his name and title–escorting her to Whitehall Palace. "Do you know something of the Prince?"

Aside from being soft-spoken, Charlotte knew her accent was thick. Her English had never been good, no matter how hard she'd tried at it. Her Latin was poor as well. What of the Prince? Did he speak French–any at all? How she longed for her native land already, though she had never before realized how attached to it she was. She wished that she would not have to sacrifice the girls who had accompanied her; not all of them cared much about their mistress, but at least she could speak her own sweet language with them instead of trying desperately to remember each English word and then trying to use it in a way that made sense to those who spoke it fluently. Her tutors had told her that a good deal of English had come from French, Charlotte thought it was an ugly, clumsy tongue. Would the English people think less of her for her failure at fluency?

Charles Brandon smiled at the girl. He had been asked–ordered, really–to meet the Princess Charlotte's ship and to be her guide and her protector on the way to London. He was rather amused; it was so similar to the task he'd been assigned years earlier, to accompany his Margaret to Portugal…but that had had a happy ending, had it not? He and Margaret may not have a blissful marriage; Charles' eye still wandered. Yet he thought it had been for the best. Margaret was happier now than he could recall her since they had been children, though she was not some high-and-mighty Queen, simply the Duchess of Suffolk. She was still none too fond of her sister-in-law, but their children adored "Auntie" Anne and their cousins as well. Margaret did, at least, give the woman credit for swaying the King, softening his heart and allowing their marriage to take place at all.

Yet Margaret had not been a mere child when she had been sent away. Charles had been dismayed when he had been introduced to Prince Harry's bride-to-be. She was tiny; he had a difficult time believing that this girl was fourteen and was to be married–well and truly married–once she arrived in London.

She could not compare in any way to the beautiful, confident Spanish infanta who had first stepped foot on English soil as a fifteen-year-old all those years ago. No, little Charlotte could not have held a candle to her future mother-in-law. Though he vaguely recalled seeing the Princess at the Field of Cloth of Gold almost a decade ago, recalled that she had been small then too–smaller, certainly, than the Princess Mary, who was of a similar age–he would not have imagined that she would not have grown more in those years. _They will make an odd pair, to be sure, _Charles thought gloomily. He knew the king would be less than pleased to see the peace offering that his French "brother" had sent. He could not imagine how this child could ever be a mother to anyone, much less to future Kings of England. Yet what could they do now––send her back and risk war? _There is always Princess Mary…she will still marry the Duc of Orleans…_

"His Highness…he is intelligent and kind, my lady, to say nothing of his piety." Charles deemed it unwise to say much of that infamous Tudor temper, which he could only imagine the boy had. He could be rash, obviously, since it would appear that he had been quite close to relinquishing his position as heir the year before. "He has a good heart, my lady."

He smiled warmly at her and Charlotte could not help but smile back. She had understood most of what he had said and would certainly not ask him to repeat it. This man–what was his title? Duke?–had been very kind himself, and he was undeniably handsome. She decided that she liked him. If he was not telling her the entire truth about her future husband, he could not be blamed. He was at the command of his King, and surely the King of England would wish everything said about his son and heir to be positive.

Charlotte wanted to know more, however. She wanted to know whether the Prince of Wales was as impossibly good-looking as this man, if he was tall, just how mismatched they would be. Knowledge was her best defense–if she arrived at the royal palace knowing what she could expect, she would be able to plan her reactions. She would know not to gape; she could act civilized, as her mother and father and all of France would expect her to. She may have been just a girl, but she had been taught how to behave. Her manners were refined. How else could she possibly impress the Prince and his family? She would hardly cut a striking or beautiful figure.

"Is the Prince as…as beautiful–handsome," she corrected herself, "as they say, sir?"

This question made Charles chuckle, amused by her forwardness. It was only natural that a girl, or anyone really–even a girl as young as Princess Charlotte–should wonder about such things. He saw no reason not to oblige her, though he was not the best judge of such things, being a man. "I suppose so, Highness. He looks a good deal like the King, and His Majesty is said to be one of the handsomest princes in Christendom. He is dark-haired with blue eyes, and quite tall…"

She looked mollified. _one of the handsomest princes in Christendom…_ Well she, Charlotte, was hardly one of the loveliest princesses in Christendom. If Harry was tall, they would look quite foolish together indeed! She was small, with unremarkable brown hair and eyes that were more dull grey than they were light blue. "_Merci, monsieur,_" she said quietly, casting her eyes away from him.

Charlotte knew she would do well to be thankful for a handsome, kind-hearted husband, but she wondered if it would not be better to be in love with him instead. Not that she had ever longed much for love, or daydreamed of finding it. She was under no impressions about that sort of thing; she knew her place as a King's daughter. And yet…

Yet what would it feel like to truly be _wanted _on her wedding day? To have her bridegroom waiting anxiously for her to appear and to think her the fairest creature upon which he had ever laid eyes no matter how she appeared to the rest of the world? What would the sensation be, knowing that he wanted more than anything to become one with her–not a man's carnal desires, no…true love! As little as she had dwelt on the concept in the past, Charlotte now ached for it. She had no doubt that Harry would be kind and good to her, as was expected. She had no doubt, either, that she would be a demure and obedient wife in all things; she had been taught that that, too, was her place. And yet… _If I knew he looked upon me in such a way, I would gladly welcome this marriage…and if I knew there was a man elsewhere who did so, I would happily turn my back on duty and diplomacy and wed him, instead. _

The Princess Charlotte had never once felt wanted or beloved since her mother's death and at that moment, she found that no matter how kindly anyone was to her here, including this handsome nobleman sitting opposite her, nothing could ever replace the feeling of being the person dearest to someone's heart as she had been to her mother. The knowledge made her want to weep. Why had she been born a Princess and not a common girl? As a commoner, she may be able to find such belonging, a great love.

As a Princess, she hadn't a single prayer of doing so.

**Whitehall Palace**

Harry Tudor had been overjoyed when Jane's last letter proved untrue and he not only heard news of her again, but saw her. He had come to Hatfield to celebrate the remarkable recovery of his little brother Edward and to his delight, Jane had been there as she had always been. It was then that he made up his mind that, one way or another, he would have her as his wife. He could not let her go–even the idea that he would never hear from her again had been a knife in his heart. He had not told her that outright then, but instead had begun to court her properly. He paid her calls–under the guise of seeing his sisters and brother, who had been quickly moved to Whitehall after Edward's health had been restored.

Navigating such a secret courtship in the midst of his father's treacherous court was a difficult task indeed. Courtiers loved any hint of scandal, as they had learned well when they had discovered the rumor of a plot by Mary to poison their brother. The first time Mary had gotten wind of that tale, she had run to the Queen's apartments in tears and it had taken Anne ages to convince her that it was no more than foolish gossip and that the people themselves would never believe such a thing of their beloved Princess.

Harry was duly glad that his sister was at Whitehall. It meant Jane, too, was there–though he could not help but wonder why Sir John Seymour had yet to find his daughter a suitable match, he was glad of that as well–and that Mary had the opportunity to renew her bond with the Queen. She was older now and, at fourteen, she was capable of having more intellectual discussions with Anne than either Edward or Eleanor. While the Queen may not love Mary as dearly as she loved her own children, she could hardly turn down such companionship–and if she had wanted to, Harry did not think that she would have invited Mary to live at Whitehall at all. He was doubly pleased that his sister had some female guidance; she had need of it. As much as he dreaded his sister being sent away to France, it seemed inevitable…and she was not complaining. He had had no idea that Mary was so stoic.

There was only one major problem that he now had to confront: time. He was running out of it, and quickly. He had not told Jane of his plan to proclaim their love to his father and stepmother yet, for he had not found a suitable opportunity to do so. Yet the Princess Charlotte was already in England–how could he tell them now? _I cannot marry her, _he thought miserably.

Yet he could not make his rejection of King Francis' daughter seem like a diplomatic slight planned by his father, either. This alliance was a step forward for England; he could not jeopardize it. It would make things harder for him as well–not only for his father. He had to look ahead, into his own reign…but he could not see any farther than that dreaded ceremony in which he would be cut off from Jane forever. If that should happen, he felt that he would grow into a bitter man indeed, and he knew that no good could come of such things. His father had lived in grief for five years after his mother had died, and in those five years, England had stagnated. It was only after he met and married Anne that the King's rule became a truly positive force once more.

"I request an audience with His Majesty," Harry said, trying to sound brave and mature, when he reached the King's audience chamber. He did not know what reaction to expect from his father. Would he be hypocritical and order him to marry Charlotte–force him? He had seen before that he could not very well step down in favor of his brother; Edward would never make a strong King. Anyone could see as much, though it might trouble his father's mind to know that he had one son grossly unprepared for the worst…should the worst indeed happen.

He was admitted almost at once. The words he had rehearsed rang in his mind. _I cannot marry Princess Charlotte, sire. I love another. I know I am young and perhaps you shall think me foolish, but I know my love for her is as strong as yours for Her Majesty… _he had considered mentioning his mother, but bringing up Katherine of Aragon was never wise. His father pretended as though he had truly moved on, as though his second marriage had healed him…but Harry knew it was a lie. The King's scars were still so fresh that a single mention of the previous Queen could tear them open anew. He had seen it so often since the birth of his twin brother and sister that it almost frightened him. He, Harry, was Katherine's son–if he was still so affected by memories of his first wife, what must looking at his firstborn do to the King's emotions?

"Harry, my boy!"

The King's face lit up. He was, for now, cheerful it seemed. Indeed, his laugh was big and booming, and Harry hoped that he was not so pleased because of the Princess' imminent arrival. If that was the case, God only knew how he would react upon hearing what his son had to say.

Harry bowed out of habit more than true deference, but his father stopped him. He put an arm around his shoulders and, as always, it surprised the young man to find that they were the same height; he was, perhaps, a bit shorter–but it was true, what they said. He was indeed a copy of his father. _Do I have nothing of Katherine in me? _he wondered, frowning. This was not the time to dwell on such things, however. His mother had loved the King…there was no reason to be dismayed if he resembled the King and not her.

"Father…I have a most pressing matter to discuss with you," Harry said. He watched uncertainly as the smile faded from his father's face. Did he sound so grim? As well he might… "It has to do with…with Princess Charlotte. With our betrothal." He shied away from using _marriage._ He and the Princess were not married yet and if he had his way, they would never be. It did not occur anymore to think himself selfish; it would not be fair to trap this young French child–for more and more, he was beginning to see himself as a man, while his sister (and those her age, as Charlotte was) was still a child–in a loveless marriage, either. Diplomacy be damned! Happiness was more important. Even his grandfather, it was said, loved his Queen, and she was a fair Englishwoman…so why not Harry, too?

When the King said nothing, he took a deep breath and forced the words to come. "I know the hour is…late, Father, but I find myself so in love with another that I cannot think of marrying the Princess without feeling…ill…" He did not know how to explain it. This was not how he'd imagined his declaration. It was going all wrong!

"Who is this girl?" His father's voice sounded strange to Harry, as though his mind was somewhere far-away.

This had not been the reaction Harry had expected and he stared at the King for a long moment. Was it too early to get his hopes up? Would his father understand? Either way, he could not withhold the information any longer. Their secret must be revealed now–or it would have to remain a secret forever. "Her name is Jane," he said, and his voice softened. Even thinking of her eased his mind. Lovely Jane…he could imagine her as Queen, with St. Edward's Crown upon her fair brow… Imagine her with their child in her arms… How he longed to see those days! "Jane Seymour. She is in Mary's service."

Mary. Surely his sister would defend them–and the Queen…his stepmother would want him to be happy, though they were not close. If he could not depend on them, his cause was lost!

"What, then, are we to do about Francis' daughter if I stand by and let you wed your Lady Jane, Harry?" The King looked grim as well now. The spring in his step and glimmer in his eye was gone. He had been looking forward to his boy being married at last, Harry thought. He had been excited to show him off––_this is the Prince of Wales. This is Katherine's son. This is the future King of England! _He would cement the Tudor dynasty once and for all, wedding Harry to another royal bloodline. Why should Mary not fill that role, however? Much as he would hate to bid her farewell, Harry thought that she was just as good, if not better, to do such a thing. She was a fair English rose, one with Spanish blood in her veins as well, and whose children would be simply brimming with regality!

What could he say? What _could_ be done about Charlotte? He did not want to be responsible for breaking a girl's heart, if she was truly looking forward to marrying him, but why should she be? Harry was as much as stranger to her as she was to him, and worse, she was in England–and likely did not speak a good deal of English. The tiny child he remembered from years ago in Calais had not looked like she would grow up into the sort of girl who wanted to become Queen more than anything. He chewed his bottom lip, unable to conjure any solution for his father.

_But I love her–I love Jane. That must mean something. Father, if only you knew her!_

"Father…Jane means more to me than anyone. More even than Mary! Perhaps you and Her Majesty believed it was nothing more than a foolish whim last year when I threatened to renounce my claim to the throne, but it was not–I would do anything for her!" He knew he sounded a bit frantic and perhaps looked that way as well. His words were heartfelt, however. He _would_ do anything for Jane. She had called him a fool in the past. She had tried to remove her influence over his life, yet he knew that she loved him as well. It may not be as dear a love…he knew, despite all this time, that she was still intimidated by his rank…but once they were married, what would that matter? She would be Jane, Princess of Wales! She would be his equal, no matter what woman had given birth to her, and she would be the mother of a future King herself.

There was only one thing he could think to do–he had one trump card, one he should not play, but felt as though he must. Harry thought it worth the sacrifice, if nothing else would sway the King.

_God forgive me, for I take advantage of my own father's pain. Mother, oh Mother, forgive me…_

Meeting his father's gaze, those eyes so like his own, Harry said, "You would not belittle my mother's memory by allowing me to marry an Englishwoman, Father. She would want me to be happy; she would want me to know a love as strong as that which she shared with you. I know that Mama would love her as Mary loves her, for they are so alike–Jane is humble and pious and _good._"

It had been an underhanded thing to say. His mother, the one person whose name he had been intent on avoiding, could well be the key to getting his wish in this matter. Yet all that he had said seemed, to him, to be the truth. Mary at least liked Jane, and she _was_ all those things. It didn't matter that she was simply an English girl and not of royal or even particularly noble blood any more than it had mattered that the Queen had not been, either.

Henry stared through his eldest child as though he no longer saw him. What _did_ he see, Harry wondered, and why could he never completely let it go? After a few very long moments, however, he seemed to come back to himself. His back straightened a bit, his shoulders leveled. "How right you are, Harry," he muttered. "You were the closest thing to your mother's heart…she would wish nothing more than to see you happy." He only sounded half-convinced, as though he could not quite convince himself that allowing the French alliance to be broken was a good idea. Harry knew, and had known for some time, that it would have been far better to tell the King and Queen of his affection for Jane–without counting the fiasco of the year before–long ago. It had been a mistake not to do so. As it was too late to rectify that choice, this one would have to do. _Better he should know, and relent, too late than never at all…_

Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. "Shall I…bring her here, Father, to introduce her to you…and to Her Majesty?"

The King simply nodded, turning away once more. His eyes seemed once again to be unfocused. At that moment, Harry did not know whether he had ever been more grateful that his mother had died when she had–nor had he ever been more heartbroken. He bowed shallowly. The only thing to do was to go to Jane and tell her the news––Jane, his sister, perhaps the Queen as well. _And what of Princess Charlotte? _She would be here likely late tonight, and if not, tomorrow morning. What would he say to her? _My apologies, Highness. I am sure you are a lovely girl, but I fell in love with another and must send you back to France, unmarried, perhaps heartbroken…_

Bowing low, Harry backed out. His heart should be lighter; his dreams should be clearer and closer to becoming reality. Instead he felt as though he had been a disrespectful son, even a cruel one, and went away with a heavy heart.

He found himself becoming more cheerful as he made his way towards Mary's chambers, however. Simply thinking of Jane–focusing on her–lifted his spirits. He did not know whether or not she would be thrilled with his news, given how unconvinced she was that she could fill the role as Queen, but he was excited for her. Mary, she would be pleased as well…he hoped. Perhaps not so pleased that he had kept the secret of his affection for Jane from her for so long…

As for his methods, no one needed to know those. He had spoken from his heart. The warm and loving woman, vague as she was, from his memories would indeed have welcomed as fine a girl as Jane as her daughter-in-law with open arms.

Harry entered his sister's apartments without waiting to be announced, though her herald attempted to announce him, looking a bit flustered. "His Highness the Prince…"

The aging man was cut off by Mary, however. She looked as pretty as a picture; her hair hung down her back in curls and she was in blue silk which shone in the sun as it streamed through the windows of her outer chamber. "Harry!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. "What a lovely surprise. I had not expected a visit from you this afternoon…should you not be preparing for your wedding?" Her tone was light, teasing.

Normally Harry would have entertained her notions as long as he could before slipping away to see Jane, but now it was high time for truths and not half-lies. "I have actually come to pay a call on Jane," he said simply.

A shadow crossed Mary's face for just a moment. He knew the words stung her; they were quite unlooked for. Her beloved brother had come to her apartments to see another? It passed quickly, however, and she brightened a bit. The ladies who sat behind her with their embroidery were staring at the King's children with wide eyes––and those not staring at Harry and Mary stared, instead, at Jane Seymour. She looked the same as ever did except that now her eyes were wider, great orbs of blue. They were fixed on Harry and he could not tell if there was horror in her face as well as surprise. Either way, she was beautiful. She was worth any trouble.

The Princess glanced at them, smiling cordially. "Now then, Lady Jane, my brother has come to see you!"

It was an obvious command and Jane heeded it, getting to her feet. She was trembling. This was the end–Harry had come to officially bid her farewell. _Oh, Harry…how I have loved you for all these years. I doubt I have ever made it clear to you…but I do. I always will. _She could not imagine her life without him, but she would be removed from court entirely eventually. Once before them, Jane sank into a curtsy, her eyes downcast. "Highnesses," she mumbled.

Harry drew her up, his hand tender against her chin. She dared to look at him, a last memory, though she felt as though she already had him memorized. _Why like this? _At that moment, Harry pressed his lips against her own. Rather than close in pleasure, Jane's eyes widened still further. Was he determined to hurt her? Did he want the other girls to laugh? Hot tears began to form in her eyes. She was tempted to pull away from him as she felt one arm creep around her waist; he may be the future King, but he could not toy with her as though she had no emotions, not when he had claimed to care for her, to love her…

"Jane, my love, I spoke to my father–he has given us his blessing," Harry said excitedly, grinning.

"Harry?"

Mary's voice barely registered in Jane's mind. Harry's words rang in her ears instead and she wondered if she could possibly have heard him correctly. The King had given his son permission to break his betrothal, when the French princess was perhaps only hours away from London? She did not know whether to be delighted, frightened or simply confused. How had Harry done it?

"Will you have me, Jane? Will you be my wife?" If her fellow maids-of-honor had been tittering before, they simply erupted now, gasping and prodding each other and whispering like mad things. Mary, too, was gaping at her brother in a most unbecoming way. How she could not have noticed their strange and secretive courtship was beyond Jane, but she did not care anymore. She only knew that Harry was there, and he was hers for the taking. To think that she, the little nothing, had bested a Princess of France…she could hardly bear to think of it. Unbelievable as the situation was, she found it simply delightful, since never in her life had she dreamed of such a thing being possible. That a Prince should want _her…_ She still thought she might cry out of joy if nothing else.

It did not matter, at that moment, that she would someday have to take on the responsibilities of being Queen; or that, here and now, all eyes in the room were fixed upon them.

"Yes, Harry. I will be your wife," she whispered, now glad that he had pulled her so close. He made to kiss her again, but she knew Mary's questions ought to be addressed first. She was, after all, his sister, and Jane had served in her household for nigh on a decade now. She had a right to hear this, especially since the pressure on her suddenly seemed to double–the French alliance now rested, Jane supposed, on Mary's slender shoulders. If her brother was not marrying the Princess Charlotte…

Harry, thankfully, took a cue from Jane and angled them towards Mary. "Jane and I are in love. I think I have always loved her a little, ever since the day you came to me saying that I should teach her to write. At first I believed it would pass, that it was a whim…but it is anything but. Mary, I simply could not be happy married to Princess Charlotte. I know that it was my duty…but even Father agreed that my happiness should come first. He found the Queen–and I have found mine!" Once again that handsome grin crept onto Harry's face.

The Princess still looked confused, but even she was smiling. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She would not want her mistress angry with her–it was not her fault that Harry had fallen in love with her, nor hers that she loved him. It had simply happened that way. If he had not been bold, and the King not been kind, they would have loved each other for naught…as it was, they were very fortunate. It was the will of God, she supposed, though she had not the slightest idea why God would choose her, Jane, to be the next Queen Consort of England!

"You must tell me if he is not a perfect gentleman to you, Lady Jane," Mary finally said. "I shall have the Duc d'Orleans deliver his head on a plate!"

Even as she came forward to kiss Jane's cheek, with the ladies still whispering furiously behind them, Jane thought how sad this was for Mary, really. The girl would be sent to France one way or another; unlike her precious brother, she would never have this opportunity. She would never find a gentleman to love, unless she happened to fall in love with her husband. Mary's life was no fairytale, even if Jane's was becoming one–but of the two, Jane thought sadly that poor Princess Mary deserved a fairytale more than anyone. The poor motherless daughter had finally found a mother in the Queen, a woman whom Jane still idolized. But who would love her in France?

In a year or two, who would see Mary Tudor as anything but the wife of a second son?

* * *

Anne did not know how to explain to little Princess Charlotte that she would not, in fact, marry the King of England's eldest son. She did not know how to bring the Lady Jane Seymour's name into the conversation, a name she had learned less than two hours ago, a girl she had met only briefly. She wished Harry could do this himself and spare her the burden–well, she and the King of course. Something seemed strange about her husband this evening, however. She recognized the problem of course. How could she not after all these years? He was thinking of Katherine, or at least of the past. She could rarely shake him entirely from that state of mind. It would wear off by the next morning, but that did them little good now, so Anne had to be the diplomatic and kind one. She knew she had one advantage, however: Claude. The poor Queen of France whom she had served so briefly had not lived to see her favorite child go to England to be wed, but Anne remembered her…and Anne remembered her tiny daughter as well.

Charlotte was still tiny. She looked as though one touch could splinter her. In that way the child reminded her, sadly, of her own dear son. Edward was even less of a strong little boy than he had been before his long and terrifying illness, though he had not fallen ill again, nor, thank God, had _any _of the children for that matter.

"Welcome to England, my dear Princess," Anne said kindly in French. She so rarely had the opportunity to speak it here, and how she loved that beautiful language!

The child smiled at her. She knew well enough that Queen Anne was not the Prince's mother and also that she had, at one time, served her own mother in France. She was held in fairly high esteem in France, or at least at court. Charlotte supposed that having a beautiful stepmother-in-law, one who spoke such pretty French and wore such stunning gowns––this evening, the Queen wore a pale pink taffeta with bell sleeves embroidered with tiny pearls–would not be terribly unpleasant. Perhaps Anne could teach her a thing or two about ruling beside a King in England. It was not as if befriending the Princess Mary would do her much good; they were of a similar age, yes, but Mary would leave soon enough to go to France. _How I envy her, _Charlotte thought. _How I would love to be home again._

"Thank you," Charlotte answered carefully in English. Her eyes strayed to the King, who by all rights should have welcomed her at first. He had said nothing…but he was indeed handsome, despite his years; he had to be forty, perhaps older, by now. If Harry looked like him, at least she would not be condemned to marry an ogre.

Inevitably, she wondered why Harry was himself not present. The customs must be strange indeed in England. She could have sworn, however, that the Duke who had accompanied her here had assured her that she would meet Prince Harry that very evening, or whenever they should arrive at Whitehall. The Palace had thus far yielded only the King and Queen with no sign of anyone the Prince of Wales' age present. She was suddenly anxious. She wanted to meet him now; she did not want to wait until she was walking down the aisle in whichever cathedral or chapel her wedding would take place in…

Meanwhile Anne watched her, pitying her. She had no idea how to tell her. If she had had more time…if Henry would say something! She reached out and squeezed his hand; it was a breach in protocol, perhaps, but she needed him now. There was no precedent for this and it was _his_ place as the King to inform this girl that she would no longer be marrying _his_ son. _Oh Harry–if only you had told us earlier, foolish boy! _She would never dream of saying this to her stepson's face, but she could not imagine why he had not spoken up earlier–_months _earlier. It was an irresponsible thing to do, letting the Princess he was supposed to marry sail here with all her possessions and her dowry only to send her back.

Royal marriages were cruel. Anne did not really have a concept of that, except that her own children would one day fall victim to it. They, too, would be diplomatic pawns. They, too, would wonder if they would ever be able to genuinely love someone. Katherine of Aragon had been extraordinarily fortunate–as had Anne herself, really, though she had already had Tom Wyatt…or would have, if he could possibly have defied her father.

Her father. Anne had not seen her father in years. As far as she knew, he had never met Edward and Eleanor. She did not feel the least bit sorry for him, however; he had made his own bed. She had exchanged a few very brief letters with Thomas Boleyn, but only to assure him that neither she nor Henry had any intention of allowing him to reap the benefits of her marriage. He had no new titles, no new lands…George, on the other hand, had enjoyed such things. She knew he loved her, even if he had failed her in the past. That was all that mattered.

And when it came to fathers, how would Francois react when he discovered that his daughter had been slighted by the Prince of Wales for a plain English maiden? Anne was fortunate. She had made a good impression during her time in France, and not for all the wrong reasons as her sister Mary had done. Francois and his court enjoyed hearing that little Mademoiselle Boleyn had found a place as King Henry's new consort, and eventually as the mother of his children. As far as she could tell, they had no qualms with such a match, even though a nobler one could certainly be found for the still-young and handsome bachelor King of England. As for Jane Seymour, however…Prince Harry had not been married before, and this betrothal had not been fraught with the problems that usually plagued and prematurely ended such arrangements. From the age of nine or ten, Harry had been pledged to young Charlotte. Now he was breaking the pledge when Francois had already entrusted her into English hands…she could not imagine how he would react.

And if he did not find fault in Henry and his family, would he blame his own daughter? The thought made Anne shiver. She did not remember the King of France being a particularly cruel man, but she knew her own father would likely have blamed her rather than the man she was to marry…

"The Queen and I dearly hope that your journey was a pleasant one and that all your needs have been met since you landed on our shore," Henry said. There was still something a bit off about his expression, but at least he was speaking. Anne released his hand, grateful. Perhaps he could explain Harry. She could not fathom it. If the boy loved his Lady Jane as Henry had once loved her–and she was unkind enough, she supposed, to be skeptical–he should have said something at once.

_He did, _she reminded herself, frowning. _He said he would renounce his claim to the throne for her. _That had been shrouded in Edward's illness, however. No one had paid too much mind to the boy's rash words when his brother had been potentially dying. Anne had resented him for even thinking to say such things…but she had not, in truth, wondered overlong about the identity of the girl he loved. He was raised to know that he married for England's benefit and not his own. She had imagined that someday he would remember as much and forget his adolescent desires. Apparently it had been more than that…and things would have been infinitely simpler if he had pursued her then, at least after Edward's recovery! She fought not to sigh in frustration.

Avoiding rashness; she would have to instill that in her own children, even if they too had inherited the Tudor temper–though she had seen no sign of that so far in her docile son and sweet little daughter.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Charlotte responded. It sounded automatic, almost afraid.

It was so very obvious how badly the girl wanted to impress them that Anne wished she could put her arms around her and comfort her as she would a younger child who had woken from a nightmare. They ere not frightening, were they? Her husband may not be himself, but apart from his temper, she thought him to be a welcoming presence at court. As for herself, she tried to be hospitable and genial at all times. It was often very difficult, but Anne was a Queen now, not some simple country girl, a knight's daughter, who could afford to have a sharp tongue. She had learned that, too, in her years of marriage to Henry. She often forgot––but in situations like this, she was almost always a model wife and Queen…at least she hoped so; she hoped, too, that that made her seem warm and maternal, at least to this poor frightened child.

The feast in Princess Charlotte's honor had been cancelled and thus they had been forced to make rushed new plans for the girl's welfare. She must be famished! Thanks in no small part to these details, Anne found it strange that Henry was so willing to cater to his son's whim, though she supposed it was for the best. She would have imagined he would want to save face and avoid the embarrassment of seeming unprepared for Charlotte's arrival.

"The Queen and I would like to invite you to dine with us this evening," Henry continued. He even smiled, as though suddenly remembering to appear kind and welcoming.

"_Et avec notre enfants,_" Anne added.

She wondered if Harry would come. He had been invited–she had told him it would be best if he came, actually–but that was hardly a guarantee that he would choose to be there. If he was anything like his father, he would not want to confront Charlotte. She was a problem and Henry, at least, would have preferred to let others deal with her.

Charlotte thanked them timidly again and agreed that she was hungry and would appreciate sharing the royal family's meal. Henry extended his arm to his wife, leaving their would-be daughter-in-law to follow behind with her attendants. When they arrived at the Queen's apartments, they found the table set and Prince Edward and Princess Eleanor already waiting. They were both dressed in white and green, the Tudor colors; Edward's fair hair seemed to emit a glow like a halo, while Eleanor's dark curls contrasted prettily with the light fabric of her gown. She waved to her parents as they entered. There had been no opportunity to tell the younger Tudor children of the new developments and Nell had been excited about the French princess' arrival for weeks, though she knew Charlotte was her sister Mary's age and thus would likely be uninterested in a child like herself.

Henry released Anne's arm and paused, glancing around at Charlotte. "May I introduce our son Edward, the Duke of York and our daughter, the Princess Eleanor."

Nell curtsied, still beaming, and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness!" Her brother, meanwhile, was a bit slower to bow. When he did, it was a shallow gesture, but he managed to smile at her and mumbled something about "Welcome" to Charlotte. For the third or fourth time––Anne and Charlotte herself had both lost count–the French girl said "thank you." There was confusion in her voice and Anne could not blame her. She could not be expected to understand why neither Harry nor Mary were in attendance. And as for Mary…

They had only just begun to take their seats at the table when Mary's voice could be heard in the corridor beyond. She was speaking loudly, and rather sharply, apparently to her brother. "Mama asked for you to be there, Harry. There is no reason _not_ to go–you have to eat, you know!"

Moments later, the door to Anne's apartments opened, revealing the elder pair of royal children. One of Mary's hands was closed around her brother's arm, as though she had been attempting to drag him along with her. She looked unabashed when the whole room, including Anne's ladies who were serving them, turned and stared at them. The herald cleared his throat and said, "Henry, the Prince of Wales and the Princess Mary" as though the identity of the newcomers was a mystery. _It is a mystery to poor Princess Charlotte, _Anne reminded herself. She would not have chosen this entrance to be the girl's first introduction to Harry, her supposed future husband. Anyone could see that he had no desire whatsoever to be there and that if Mary had not forced him to come, he would not be.

He cleared his throat and bowed to them. "Your Majesties…Your Highness." His sister let go of his arm and curtsied as well, though she said nothing. She instead slipped away from him and went to kiss her stepmother's cheek and then her father's before taking a place beside Edward. "Princess Charlotte, it is lovely to welcome you to England. I am Mary, and this is my brother Harry." This, too, was a bit of a breach in protocol, but given how odd this situation now was, that was hardly a surprise.

Charlotte offered a ghost of a smile to the bold Princess who would someday go to marry her own brother, and then turned to look more properly at her bridegroom. "Your 'ighness," she murmured, curtsying to him.

Harry took a step forward, forcing himself to step forward–to reach out and take the Princess' little hand–to watch as she rose from the curtsy–and finally to meet her eyes, only to find that they were as clear and lovely as the sky after a storm…

* * *

_Well, who do you like better–Jane or Charlotte? Which do you think deserves to be Queen? _=)_ Remember to leave a review! _


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: **Wow. I never expected so many reviews to pour in! Thank you all for the input. To PrincessMaryJaneKOA: Katherine probably would have preferred a Spanish alliance. Logically, however, the fact that they're alive sort of cements an alliance with Spain; likewise, Wolsey was very pro-French and since Henry does not have children with French blood in their veins, he opts for the French matches. (Also, any errors in the French at the end of the chapter are entirely mine. Foreign languages are sadly not my gift.) _This is the second, edited, revised, improved edition of Chapter Thirteen. I was dissatisfied by the ending of the other; it felt like a copout. I hope you enjoy this updated version!_

**19 April 1533  
Whitehall**

The royal family had every reason to celebrate on this day. The entire court was abuzz with the news as they filed out onto the tilting field. The Queen sat in the stands looking appropriately lovely, as she always did. On her right sat her son and daughter: Princess Eleanor, everyone murmured, would someday be a great beauty and a treasure to whichever foreign prince claimed her hand. She was the picture of grace even now, though she was not yet eleven years old. She held herself as one who knew she was both lovely and important, but there was still a gleam of childish delight in her eyes as she watched the crowd gather. She glanced eagerly at her brother, Edward. The boy still had a dreamy, delicate quality about him. It was no surprise that he was not so much as a page in this tournament. No one thought that he would ever become a knight or warrior, and some said he was likely–as his father had originally intended to do before him–to enter the clergy. Certainly it was difficult to see him in any other life. Many wondered how he could possibly have been born at the same time as Eleanor, and how his father could possibly be as vigorous a man as the King.

The elder Tudor daughter was not there; indeed, she was in France by now, married to the Duc d'Orleans. It was a sobering thought for her siblings, her stepmother and especially for her father and everyone knew as much…but what was to be done? Mary had been promised to Prince Henri and it sounded as though she was not unhappy in her new life. She still wrote frequent letters to her parents, signing herself as "Marie, _Duchesse d'Orleans_." Anne dearly hoped that Henri treated her stepdaughter as he should and that Francois' son was fortunate enough to have inherited his sense of morality from his mother and not his father. The thought of Mary enduring life with a man who took as many mistresses as Francois had was unbearable. Fortunately Mary had been lovely enough the two years before, just months after her fifteenth birthday, to satisfy any man, and Anne imagined that she was lovelier still now.

Now, however, an occasion had arrived to lift all their spirits. Even Henry seemed genuinely excited. They had learned some three months ago that the Princess of Wales was with child and now that the child had quickened within her womb, the news had been announced to the whole court. Only a few months ago Anne may, perhaps, have felt a bit envious of her stepdaughter-in-law. She had long hoped to be given the opportunity of carrying another child and to feel the sweet weight of an infant in her arms. She did not want to see Nell and Edward grow up as Mary had, yet they were doing just that. Ah, that magical time, more than a decade ago now, when she had been newly-married! Mary had still been small, and there had been nothing, not even her darling children, to get in the way of their happiness.

Things had changed in that time, however. Anne found herself with child as well and she supposed that, was Henry not so distracted by his son's good fortune, he would have celebrated the miracles with equal joy. She tried not to be saddened that her husband's attentions were focused on his future grandchild and not on his own, growing within her swelling womb. She rested a hand gently against her abdomen. It was rounded but not enormous yet; by contrast, the young woman beside her looked fit to burst already and she was perhaps a month behind the Queen in her own pregnancy.

Anne was happy for Charlotte. They were not close–they could hardly be, with Charlotte and Harry at Ludlow most of the year–but she liked the Princess, the girl whose heart had come so close to being broken. _Poor Lady Jane, _she thought with a sigh. _All but a Princess_. It was for the best, however. Her stepson loved his wife. He al but worshipped her. She could not imagine that he had loved Jane Seymour as much as he had once thought, seeing his interaction with Charlotte.

Charlotte had never known about Mistress Seymour, the girl who had nearly supplanted her. Harry had never had the heart to tell her that he had been so desperately, foolishly in love that he would have done the dishonorable thing and abandoned her in a foreign land, an act which may well have incited war between his country and hers. Why should he spoil their happiness by doing so? Jane could hardly affect her now. He had learned his lesson, though whether that lesson had been in diplomacy or in matters of the heart was questionable.

She had never even suspected. Even at fourteen, she had known only that she loved her Prince. When he had taken her hand and kissed it, she had no longer been petrified. She had no longer cared how strange all of this was; no feast, no grand welcome. She actually preferred the quiet family meal that commenced from there. Even now, she could picture it perfectly as though all of it had happened yesterday. The moment had been simply magical; the best part had been that there was no need for words. Sitting beside the Queen, she did just that. She let her lids fall over her eyes, the ones Harry seemed to think were so beautiful, and remembered.

_He had stared into her eyes, and she into his, and she had wanted desperately for him to love her. It had not really mattered before, but he was so very handsome. His skin was warm and only slightly calloused against hers. Though he towered over her, Charlotte felt warm and protected instead of intimidated. What a foolish girl she was! Yet she could not help herself–she was in love, or at least in a fantasy. _

_The Prince did not let go of her hand. He did not look away. Indeed, Harry looked as thunderstruck as she did. She wondered how one knew that sort of thing, the thing about love; how did you find yourself hopelessly in love with someone who had spoken only a few words to you apart from his letters? Was that love or simply infatuation–or was it neither? Was she doing nothing more than deluding herself in a vain attempt to find happiness in this foreign land? She was only fourteen. She had hardly lived at all! How could she be in love with anyone, much less someone she had only just seen?_

I have dreamed of the peace I would find, being a nun. I would escape the demands of living a public, respectable life. I would escape the pain of childbearing. It would be my sisters and I and of course, the Lord. But now, I do not want that. _She did not want any life that would tear her away from this perfect moment._

Whether Harry loved her had been a mystery for months after that. He had not told her so–not until he came to her bed. She was not certain why it had taken him so long; perhaps he was disgusted by being wed to such a child, or perhaps he was afraid of hurting her. Either way, he had been sweet and gentle with her that night. By the time she was lying there in his arms in the blissful afterglow of their first coupling–it had hurt at first; it had been frightening; but it had also been unspeakably beautiful in the end–she had known. Even if she had not, he had told her so.

"Je t'aime_, Charlotte," her Price whispered. He was twenty now, and she still only fourteen, but she felt like a beautiful and full-grown women. She lifted her face up to look at him. They were unclothed; Harry's chest looked as though he were a Greek god come to life and was now covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The fact that he had said so at all made Charlotte's heart sing, but to hear it in her own tongue–no matter how clearly Harry's accent reminded her that she was not at home but in England, though it was beginning to feel more like home now–was even sweeter. He loved her. She could scarcely believe it. Why should he love her, a mere child? She was not about to question him, however. Never. She would only thank God for this blessed opportunity to find true happiness with the man to whom she was married._

_His eyes were half-closed as he watched her, perhaps waiting for her to say something. His hand played absently against her bare, flat stomach. It fluttered helplessly. This was paradise. The Lord was good! Though she knew she was small and far from well-endowed, she was here in his arms, desired, loved, protected…none of it mattered._

"_And I you," she whispered. What if she had only wanted to hear it, and he wished to know of what she spoke? At first she was frightened that she had done simply that: misheard him, imagined those beautiful words, for his hand had stopped. No–he had simply fallen asleep. Even as she had returned the sentiment, his breathing had become more shallow. She could no longer see his eyes, blue like the sea under a brilliant summer sky. She could only gaze at his peaceful face and wonder how she found herself married to him._

_Katherine of Aragon, Harry's mother, had been a gorgeous girl; it was said that the King had fallen in love with her at once, though she had been destined to marry his older brother. Queen Anne, too, was lovely. What did she, Charlotte, have to move his heart to love? She turned in his arms, pressing her cheek against his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat. She was not particularly clever and certainly not beautiful, though she supposed she was passing fair. It never occurred to her that, to her husband, "_je t'aime_" may be only words with little meaning–in any language._

_For at that moment, Charlotte saw her future spreading brilliantly before her. She imagined their glorious coronation…by then, of course, God willing, Harry would be a venerable man of perhaps thirty or forty and she, his Queen, would be mother to a handful of strong, handsome boys and sweet, pretty girls. She would no longer be the child-bride of the Prince of Wales but a true Queen, proud and wise._

There had been a tournament, albeit it had been cold and a little miserable, in celebration of their wedding. It seemed only fitting that there should be one now. Charlotte was a bit nervous. She did not like jousting–it was too violent, too loud. But she was frightened for another, different reason. This child frightened her. Now that she had to confront the upcoming reality of childbirth, she was nearly petrified. She may have grown a few inches since her first arrival on English soil, but she was still petite and thin. Whereas the Queen was all the lovelier with a child growing fast within her, Charlotte felt awkward and conspicuous. Her child must be big indeed, and already. That was frightened her. She could not imagine the agony of bringing this creature into the world. So many women did not survive it–would she be able to? Her hips were far from wide, and slender was perhaps too mild a word for her figure. She tried to have faith that God would provide for her and tried to take comfort and advice from the Queen now that she was at court again, but Anne seemed to dismiss her worries without really hearing them. She was far too wrapped up in her own happiness to let the shadows of another woman's mind creep in and threaten it.

Anne, on the other hand, was very fond of this sport. She knew that it could be dangerous, but she also knew that it gave men like Henry an outlet for their anger and their pride, and offered the court a diversion from their usual gossip-mongering. She knew, too, that her brother would ride today; she felt as though she had not seen George in ages, not since he had married Jane Parker. Though she had yet to meet the new Lady Rochford, she knew George was none too fond of her. No matter–the woman was not here today.

Harry had actually suggested–though not to his wife herself–that Charlotte stay inside with her ladies for fear that her health would be upset by the festivities. Anne had told him in no uncertain terms that it was absurd to banish the woman for whom the tournament was being held for such a slim possibility. Charlotte, she thought, was stronger than she looked. The young man did himself no credit by underestimating her. It was a miracle that he had married her at all. If Henry had not insisted, told him that Francois would make war if the betrothal was broken at such a later hour, told him that Mary would be in danger when it was her turn to be wed to Charlotte's brother…

If Henry had not come to his own senses and then talked sense into his son, Anne did not know where they would be now. Harry claimed to love Charlotte. He said that he had loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her…but the love had not been strong enough, not initially, to dissuade him from marrying his English girl. That was enough to make Anne skeptical of those claims, but she had said nothing. If Charlotte was happy, that was what mattered.

Anne did feel bad, in a way. She knew that ultimately, her stepson had thought he was being denied what she had found in Henry: true love and a successful turn as Queen Consort without having royal blood in her veins. Yet Harry had to have known how different the situations were…his widower father had little in common with him when he first laid eyes on Anne, and that was fortunate, really. It seemed that all had worked out in the end. Harry was not bitter–he held nothing against his father or stepmother, nor against his wife, as far as Anne could tell.

"Mama, look!" Eleanor squealed beside her. She pointed one small hand at the horses approaching them, one a great chestnut mare and the other white.

Anne's eyes skimmed over her stepson briefly before fixing upon her own husband. He looked quite handsome and noble in his suit of armor, she had to admit. He grinned at her, raising a hand to wave back at Nell, who was now shaking her hand frantically in his direction in hopes of being acknowledged. Then he lifted his lance carefully, settling it in the stands between his wife and daughter. "Will you permit me to wear your favor, fair Queen?" he asked, still grinning–he was not exactly pulling off the chivalrous knight role, but Anne was nonetheless amused, even touched. She stood up, inclining her head. With nimble fingers, she untied the scarlet ribbon bound about her wrist and held it out to Henry, tying it around the tip of the lance.

"You must prove yourself worthy of wearing it, sir!" she teased, tilting her chin up haughtily.

This earned her an unexpected reward. Henry tossed is lance to the ground beside his son's mount and leaned up in his saddle. Anne was about to ask him what exactly he was doing when he pressed his lips to hers. Eleanor began to giggle beside them; those in the audience who were paying attention joined in the Princess' mirth, laughing and applauding to see how well things were with the royal family.

Beside them, Charlotte and Harry's display was quieter. Before he even approached, she clung to her scrap of blue silk, standing at the edge of the stands. When he moved close, she extended one hand, palm up, the fabric resting in it. Harry smiled at her. He took it and tucked it inside his armor, close to his heart. Charlotte's own heart beat loudly in her ears. Why was she so lucky? Why had God found her worthy of having Harry Tudor for her own?

"Be careful," she murmured anxiously. She knew this sport could be dangerous.

Harry laughed. He brushed her hand with that handsome, confident smile still upon his face. "Do not worry, dear heart."

And then he was gone.

Charlotte took her seat again. She tore her gaze away from her husband, glancing instead at the Queen. Her cheeks were a little flushed from the King's boldness; by her side, Princess Eleanor was still beaming. Charlotte wondered if she was still young enough to think that her eventual marriage would be as enchanted as her parents'. It was all too obvious that she adored her father. Yet Charlotte's own father was nothing like King Henry, and she did not think that her brothers were anything like Harry, either. Most men, she felt, would come as a sore disappointment to the starry-eyed Nell someday. She herself had been prepared for a miserable life and had been pleasantly surprised…but her sister-in-law could not marry a Tudor man. Her luck would probably sadly be less than Charlotte's, or her mother's.

The first round's contestants were announced: the Duke of Suffolk, who Charlotte now knew was the man who had escorted her to London and was also a member of the royal family by marriage, against the King. Anne's expression was a bit more subdued now; Charlotte imagined that secretly, at least, they shared the same fears. There was only excitement upon Nell's face, however. She leaned forward in her seat.

The flag was dropped. Everyone in attendance held their breath.

Henry and Brandon spurred their horses forward…

Everyone cheered as the King's lance found its mark, nearly unhorsing his poor friend. Nell actually leapt from hr seat, jumping up and down, until Anne told her to calm herself.

After they dismounted, the two men embraced, arms around each other's shoulders as they walked off to the tents. Henry glanced up at his wife and offered her another grin. She looked a bit drawn–more worried than she had cared to admit–but her fears had been unfounded. She smiled coyly back at him, only paying half a mind as the next contestants were announced. Henry's confidence sometimes worried her, it was true. He was not invulnerable simply because he had a young, strong heir, nor was he particularly young anymore, though far be it from Anne to remind him of that! Still, he had not come off worse for wear, and she was certainly glad of it.

Next up came her brother; George won his match as well and waved to his sister and little niece, nearly as excited about his victory as about her father's, as he passed them afterwards. Anne missed George sometimes. She missed the way they had once been. But she could see him whenever she desired, and she reminded herself that some–Charlotte, for instance, and their darling Mary–did not have that luxury.

_Treasure Edward, _she wanted to tell her daughter. _Treasure him like Mary treasured Harry._

She hated to think that someday she would be parted from Nell as she had been forced to part from Mary. There would be a dark spot in her life when her firstborn was gone. No letter could replace the enthusiasm of her lively little girl. But that was in the future–and she would be able t keep this child, the one growing within her even now, for a long while yet. She had to hold on to that and not think of the inevitable day, perhaps only four or five years from now, when Nell would be sent to a stranger's bed. Anne was long past her days of daydreaming that she was Lady Wyatt, and while it was true that were she Tom's wife, she would not have to endure such partings, she doubted she would love them as dearly as she loved her children by Henry.

The next pair of contestants were Harry and another young man, the son of a nobleman whose name Anne did not recognize. As the Prince slipped his helmet on, he glanced at his wife. Out of the corner of her eye, Anne could see Charlotte's knuckles were white, her hands resting on the gentle swell of her abdomen. She seemed to be mumbling something under her breath–prayers, maybe? Her voice was so low that Anne, sitting beside her, could not hear it.

She wanted to reassure the girl: Harry would be fine. He was younger and stronger than his father, was he not? _And he knows he must take care, _she thought, _for there is no guarantee that his unborn child is a son, and he knows that his brother is weak…_

The flag was thrown down.

The horses' hooves were like the pounding of Charlotte's heart.

Harry's opponent leaned forward. He angled his lance. It caught where it should. The Prince was knocked backward, but he did not reach out and steady himself again as he should have. Instead, he seemed to float in midair as his horse continued to gallop forward.

And then he fell.

Charlotte was already on her feet as Harry's body crumpled onto the ground. She gasped sharply. She lifted her skirts, making to go to him, though he was already being surrounded. People were running. Brandon, Henry… Harry was not moving.

Anne knew she should have stopped Charlotte. She should have insisted that the girl sit back down. It was unsafe for her to join the throng, especially in her condition. Yet her eyes were fixed on her own husband, fighting his way through the crowd. They parted for the King, enough to allow Anne to see him kneeling there beside his eldest child, clutching Harry's arm. His face was hidden, and she was almost glad of it–this was likely a simple accident. Harry would recover in a few minutes. Yet Anne did not want to see the emotion on Henry's face. She did not want to look him in the eye and see his sorrow and his fear. This was Katherine's boy, his last connection to his first beloved wife. If he did not recover, Anne trembled to think how Henry would be affected.

She turned to her own children. Nell's eyes were wide with horror, staring straight ahead at the body of her fallen brother, her father kneeling at his side. Anne reached across to close her fingers around Edward's arm. She pulled the fair-haired boy out of his seat towards her. He said nothing, but Anne could tell that he knew–he was physically weak, it was true, but not stupid. He knew what this could mean for him.

"Harry will be fine, my love," she whispered, holding him close. He was ten now, but she felt as though she had her baby in her arms again. She was frightened–for him, for Henry, for Charlotte…for all of them. "Everyone will be fine…" Anne kissed the top of his blonde head. _Please, God. Please watch over Harry._

For not the first time in her life, however, Anne wondered if God could hear her or if He even cared.

**21 April**

The Prince's breathing was shallow. Charlotte could barely hear him inhale. That was better than being unable to hear him at all, she reminded herself. She did not know what she would do if his breath stopped. The doctor did not seem optimistic–he had not seemed so two days ago, nor did he now. He told Charlotte, in fact, that she should not stay with him. It would be too upsetting for a woman in her condition, he said. With the Prince so near death, Her Highness could not risk the child she carried. _The succession be damned, _Charlotte thought, shuddering. Death was an unwelcome guest here in her life. It had already stolen her mother and Harry's mother as well, for that matter. Why did it want Harry as well? _Why not me instead, Lord? _

The King had another son. The Queen was with child as well. If she lost her own out of fear for her husband…well, it would be a personal tragedy. She would hate the feeling of emptiness and loss. But she was thinking little of the tiny soul within her womb who occasionally kicked and squirmed. All her thoughts and prayers were with Harry. _Please, _mon amour, _do not leave me now. You promised me that you would be careful. _

When they had removed his armor, it was to find a nasty bruise on his shoulder. Even then, his breathing had sounded labored. They had given Charlotte her favor then, sadly; and it had not occurred to her then to wonder why there was a second, unfamiliar ribbon there. She had accepted both without protest simply because her attention was so fixed upon listening for Harry's breath, hearing the doctor's prognosis… Now as she bent her head to pray again, Charlotte paused and withdrew the scraps of silk. The second favor was strange to her. She could not imagine who it belonged to or where it had come from–and then it occurred to her. It must be Mary's. she had probably given her brother something to remember her by before she had sailed to France, and he kept her close to his heart as well. She was suddenly touched.

"Oh Harry, you must live," she whispered. "Please. Live for me, Harry…for your child."

She entwined their fingers and brought his hand to her lips. If he died, Charlotte did not know what she would do. A foreign widow…the idea was chilling. His mother had lived through it, they said…but his mother had loved the second son. She loved only him.

Anne moved out of the doorway, sliding the heavy wooden door closed again. Charlotte was far too concerned for her husband to notice. It made Anne's heart ache. She wished there was something that could be done, for everyone's sake. Yet her world had not fallen apart, at least not yet, as she had expected it to. Henry was being shockingly stoic. No one could claim that the King was chipper, but he had put on a brave face for the courtiers and for his younger children…perhaps even for his wife and his daughter-in-law. It came as a true surprise after seeing his prolonged grief for Katherine's death.

She turned away from the closed door, fully intent upon returning to her apartments, when she saw Henry standing there. He looked sullen but his eyes were neither swollen nor red. "Oh, Henry…" What could she say to ease his pain? They had almost lost Edward three years ago. She understood his pain. But her empathy could not make Harry open his eyes.

"Shh," he murmured. His voice sounded hoarse and strained. "If this is God's will…"

Anne crossed the corridor to stand by his side. Far be it from her to assume to know the mind of the Lord, but she thought it cruel to steal Harry away from them like this. After Katherine was dead, and Mary in France… How could Henry survive this? He was composed now, but if Harry did not wake, if he stopped breathing and simply died in that bed, what would become of his poor father? Henry had endured so much loss–his mother, his brother, his beloved wife…now his son? Bad enough that Edward had nearly died. This was too much for a man to bear. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. "There is still hope…"

Henry actually smiled, though the expression was a weary one. He looked as though he had aged years in the space of only a few days. "Yes, my love." Gently, he pressed one of his palms against the bodice of her gown. "There is still hope. There is always hope."

Looking up into his eyes, Anne's breath caught. She wondered if he knew how desperately she wanted him to love their coming child as much as he loved his other children, no matter what happened to Harry now. She hated to think that he might resent the baby she would deliver, or that he may dismiss it as a poor "substitute" for his son, should Harry die. It occurred to her that perhaps he was simply hoping she would deliver a healthy baby boy, one who would prove to be a stronger child than Edward…what man was comfortable with having only one son, even if their daughter-in-law was with child herself? These thoughts were sinful, that much Anne knew. The Lord had not laid claim to Harry, not yet. She should not think so selfishly of how her situation–and that of her children, particularly this unborn child–would change upon his death, but how could she help it?

She lifted her hand to brush it against his cheek tenderly. Would he never know true happiness? As much as she loved him, sometimes Anne wished that, for his sake, Katherine would have lived. Even if they had lost their child then, he would not have had to lose her.

"Harry is in my every prayer," she assured him softly. "And you as well."

His smile faded slowly, but he leaned down and kissed her forehead nonetheless. "Go to the children," he murmured. She wished she could ask him if he would come and ease his troubled mind–and those of his healthy children, for that matter–but she doubted he would consent and, in truth, was a little fearful of asking him to. Instead, she inclined her head and left him standing there in the corridor outside his son's chambers, simply waiting. Waiting to see when the Prince of Wales would open his eyes…

…or when he would draw his last breath.

**23 April  
Wulfhall, Wiltshire**

_My dear Jane –_

_I know this will come as a shock to you; indeed, it is a shock to write these words. If word has not reached you by now, you should hear it. I was nearly killed on the tilting yard from a bad fall four days ago. God has spared me in His infinite mercy, but I know, now, that things must change. I have wronged my wife, whom you must know I love as truly as I love you, and there is no woman less deserving of being wronged. It is my intention to tell her that I have not been a proper husband to her, though I think I shall neglect mentioning the boy – at least for now. It is better that neither she nor my father and stepmother ever learn of him, not before I am King myself. As much as it pains me, I know I can no longer deceive Charlotte. You and the boy must pay a high price, dear Jane, and I loathe myself for it. I will continue to send you a small allowance while I am able, for I do care for both of you, but I must not go to Wiltshire again. You would do well to marry and give him a proper father. I beg your forgiveness, as I must now beg Charlotte's and that of God Himself._

_Your servant,  
Henry, Prince of Wales_

Jane Seymour wept until no more tears would fall. She simply could not bear this news. It had to be a lie–they were, of course, lying to her. Someone had discovered them. Someone wanted her out of the way, again, and had forced his hand. Yet she could not lose Harry a second time. He was her life. He meant more to her than anyone. Her brothers and sisters may have looked down upon her. Edward may have spit when she returned home, making his opinion of his eldest sister all too clear. Her father may sigh and frown when he laid eyes on her now. It did not matter, of course, not one moment of it. She had Harry's heart, even if she was not his wife. She should have known that it was too good to be true–a secret affair, all but married… While he feigned love for his little French girl, he truly loved her. He always would. Someday she would be elevated to some high title and everyone would know that the younger Henry Tudor had never truly fallen out of love with Mistress Seymour. She would be his official mistress, belittling though the title might be. It was better than not having him at all. She would endure for the sake of love.

Now all those dreams crumbled around her. Harry had left her here. He had left her to fend for herself. She may never see his handsome face again or hear his tender words or feel the sweet caress of his hands. She would almost certainly never receive another letter expressing his deepest love, assuring her that when he could, he would steal away from Ludlow and visit her at Wulfhall. Never again would she be sent a single rose and rush downstairs from her bedchamber, knowing that he stood there in the great entrance hall, waiting for her.

This one, last letter told Jane everything she needed to know: she was nothing.

"Mama?"

As she wept on her bed, hiding her red, swollen face in her pillows, the small voice cut through her grief. She raised her head. There by her bedside, her solemn-eyed little son stood, not yet two years old but so good and intelligent and handsome already! He had her fair hair, but everything else about him was his father's. She saw Harry gazing back at her with those Tudor eyes, and she felt like turning over and sobbing anew. Yet she could not–she had to be there for her son when he needed her, as he so obviously did now. He was confused, for no one here paid him mind but his mother and the adoring servants.

_She had delivered him barely ten minutes ago and the whole family was standing there about her bedside in her small bedchamber in Wulfhall–the Seymour home but not Jane's home, not anymore…that had been Mary's household at Hatfield for so very long… Her brothers looked angry; her father, tired. It was her sister Elizabeth who first spoke, however. She would have thought them less grim: she had just delivered the King's grandson, bastard or not! He was so beautiful, Jane thought, cradling him in her arms. She could not wait for Harry to come and meet him, his firstborn. She had given him a gift which would take years for his French girl to emulate! Yet none of them looked even a little pleased or charmed by the sight of Jane with her child. She knew a bastard was nothing to be proud of…but did they not love her? Why could they not look past the disgrace?_

_Elizabeth's words cut into her heart. "I will not care for your bastard for you, sister!" She had turned on heel, glaring at Dorothy as though to insist that she come as well, and they had both left the room at once. Jane had stared after them in horror. She wanted to shield her newborn son forever from such hatred, yet she knew already that there was no way to do so, especially not if his own family would not accept him._

"_I had thought of naming him John," she said quietly, turning her eyes up, searching ad finding her father's. John Seymour's smile was ghostly, but it was there. "Yes," she repeated. "John." She would rather name him Henry, after his father, but naming him after his grandfather was not a poor compromise._

Soon after baby Jack's birth, the younger Seymour girls had been sent to serve in the Queen's household. They had obviously been all too eager to escape the stigma that surrounded Wulfhall now. Jane had been sad to see them go, despite Elizabeth's obvious prejudice. She had longed for a sympathetic ear, or any woman at all who was not a servant, and now she had none. Edward and Thomas were also often at court, and so sometimes it was simply Jane, her father and her son…when Harry did not come. And he came as often as he could. She knew it was not always easy for him to escape his duties, and she was grateful for his presence every time he arrived. She missed him more each time he rode away, never able to stay as long as she wished he could.

It was only with Harry there that Jane felt less like an outcast and a failure. With her beloved by her side, Jane thought, _I would have been a Queen if not for the King changing his mind. It is for the best, really–no one wants a war. Harry loves me. That is what really matters. _Sometimes they would walk together, or ride, or sometimes simply sit–even sleep–with Jack snugly in his father's arms. Harry was as besotted by his baby son as Jane had imagined he would be. How could anyone not love Jack? He was a precious child indeed!

The first time he had come to find that she had delivered her child was still clear in her memory. She had clung to that memory from the first, and now more than ever.

"_My love, come upstairs with me…"_

_Jane reached out, closing her hand around his. His eyes were wide. He had known for a week or more now that she had had the child. At first they had both been anxious. The child was a "mistake," a "burden" for Jane, he'd said guiltily. He had apologized. She had wept. But in the end, now that she had Jack with her, she did not regret his existence, nor his conception. Not for a moment. She beamed as they moved down the upstairs corridor until they finally reached Jane's bedchamber. She opened the door slowly. Inside, a baby in the arms of a maidservant squirmed and whined softly. _

_She went to the young woman and took him, smiling gratefully. It barely registered to her as the girl curtsied deeply, obviously stunned by standing in the presence of the Prince of Wales. Making cooing noises to settle him down, Jane slowly crossed back to Harry and held little Jack out to him carefully._

"_Your Highness, may I present to you your son John," she said breathlessly._

_Harry's face was full of wonder and delight. He did not, initially, take the baby into his arms, but simply stared at him, almost in disbelief. She understood. She was constantly amazed, even after almost a fortnight, to think that she was now a mother and had such a perfect child. Everything about Jack was enchanting. His eyelashes were long and dark and she loved to watch them flutter when he slept. The eyes they framed were large and deep like pools of water. He had already begun to laugh sometimes, a sweet baby gurgle. She had never believed there was room in her heart for a love as deep and pure as the love she now felt for her son. He was, in every way, a blessing. _

_Finally Harry looked away from the child's face and leaned forward to kiss her. "Jane," he laughed softly, still close enough that she could feel his warm breath, though he was once again gazing down into the face of his son, "Jane, my love, he is perfect. Thank you."_

"Yes, my sweet darling, what is it?" she asked, holding out her arms.

Little Jack toddled into them. She relished his warmth against her skin as she lifted him up and sat him upon her knees. He was still small but seemed to her quite-grown up for a boy so young. He was so serious, though not unhappy. Jane kissed his cheek, letting her lips linger there for a moment. Her boy, her precious boy…who would protect him now? He was the King's grandson–but he was also a bastard. Without his father to adore him, he, too, was nothing. _No! He is everything to me, _her mind protested vehemently.

And he was, especially now. She could not imagine what her life would be now without Jack, nor did she want to.

"Mama, why are you sad?" he asked carefully, pausing to make sure he got every word right. How proud of him she was! Jane had never been extraordinarily intelligent, but Harry–Harry was brilliant. She was glad that his son had inherited that brilliance. She wanted him to take after Harry in every way he could….Harry could have overcome the stigma of being a bastard. Jane herself never would have been able to. She wanted her son to be strong and brave, and she knew that he would have to be someday.

She drew in a shuddering breath. Why must it be her who explained to him? _No one else would do it properly. _No one else, except for old Sir John, paid Jack any mind at all. It was as though he was not even there.

"My love…you remember your father, don't you? You remember Papa." Jane tried to think of the last time Harry had come to see them. Had it been last month…the month before that? It would almost be easier to break this news if the memories of Harry had already faded from Jack's mind, though she desperately wanted her son to remember his father forever. She knew that was impossible…so she would have to remember every moment the three of them had shared and tell Jack and make sure he knew how dear he had been to Harry. She waited. He little boy nodded slowly. She sighed, taking another deep breath to steady herself. She needed to be the strong one now, if only for a little while. He had already watched her throw a tantrum like a child…she could not set that kind of example for him. Not anymore.

"Jack, Papa…Papa had an accident, darling. He–" Jane swallowed hard, her voice failing her for a moment. "–he…he will not come to visit us as he has before." She could not bear thinking that they were to be abandoned by Harry, who said he lived her and their child. What did she care about what God had said to him? True enough, he had a wife, one expecting his child, but was Jane not already the mother of his child? Sinful it might have been to let Harry bed her out of wedlock when he had his French princess already, but Jack could not be a sin.

The little boy looked confused; she did not blame him. How could he understand what she was saying – how could he understand that his father was turning his back on them because of a close call with death? Jane was still enough in love with Harry, despite this betrayal, to still her tongue against any harsh words, though as much for Jack's sake as anything. She could not tell her son lies; Harry was a good man, probably better than she cared to admit. He would be a good and righteous King and they were fortunate indeed that he had not perished from his accident. If only he did not feel he had to choose a single path. If only…

Jane closed her eyes for a moment, then drew her son closer to her. She began crooning him a soft lullaby, though it was midday, to stave off more tears. Her love for Harry may have been selfish; she knew as well as anyone that his marriage to Charlotte was politically and diplomatically important. She knew that she wished it was she who warmed Harry's bed at night and wished that it was their son who was honored as the future King not because they were best for the country, but for her and Jack. But her love for her son was utterly selfless. She knew in that moment that she would do anything in her power to protect him. She would marry any man she had to–and it was becoming obvious now, slowly, reluctantly, that she would indeed have to–even if he was old enough to be her grandfather if it meant Jack would be safe and would not be reviled as an abomination or taunted for his mother's disgrace. As far as she knew, Jack's birth had been kept a secret from the King, so he would not even be able to use the excuse of being a Prince's son, a King's grandson. Yes…she would have to become someone's wife. She may have to bear other children, even. None would ever be as special as her firstborn, however. How could they be?

Tenderly, Jane pressed her cheek against the top of her son's head. "I love you, Jack. You are my greatest treasure, and your father's as well, no matter what. Never forget it, darling."

**Whitehall**

Anne sat in her apartments with her children. A handful of her ladies, including the ever-faithful Nan, sat across the room. Eleanor was dozing on one side of her, leaning against the cushions of the seat in the window, undisturbed by the soft, late-afternoon light that came through the panes. Edward, however, was awake. Anne's attention was focused on the small prayer book she held in her left hand, but she had one arm around him as though to make sure he was there. She had been so incredibly frightened when she had nearly lost him, but in a strange way, it had been nothing to the fear she had felt when Harry lay on his deathbed. Some part of Anne would rather have seen her little son's soul go to God than see him struggle with the burden of becoming his father's heir.

Henry had recovered well from the shock and horror of this, the third time he had nearly lost one of his children. Though she had not seen him since midmorning, he had been cheerful indeed as he left her apartments. He had ruffled Edward's hair and hoisted Nell into his arms to kiss her cheek and kissed Anne properly, one hand resting against the swell of her abdomen where his fifth child grew.

"You must all say extra prayers," she reminded them gently, breaking the stillness of the room. Nell tilted her dark head up to look at her mother properly, while Edward simply stared out at the scene before him as though she had said nothing. "You must thank the Lord with all your might that He has spared your brother." She spent every moment she could spare doing just that. For three days, she had demanded angrily of God, _Why my son?_ Yet God had given Harry back to them now. God had restored Harry as He had restored His own Son to life. To her, it seemed quite as miraculous. Was thinking such a thing sinful?

"This means that Edward will not be King after all, right, Mama?" Her small daughter's tone was matter-of-fact; she sounded neither distraught nor particularly relieved. Anne could not help but wonder at the words. She had long thought Harry meant almost as much to Nell as he did to Mary.

"Yes," she replied simply.

The young princess' eyes were fixed upon her brother, who still did not look away from the smattering of Anne's ladies, mending and minding their own business. "But why, Mama? Why Harry and not Edward?" While it was obvious to Anne why Katherine's boy would make a far better King than her own, she had never imagined Nell – who knew Edward better than anyone – would wonder about such things. She was almost horrified to hear her voice such thoughts. None of them, least of all Anne, could know why God had chosen to make Edward as he was. Once, she had felt that her children were as worthy of taking Henry's throne as those of his first wife. Now, she was simply glad to have them.

"Hush, Nell. It is not for us to question the will of God," she said, perhaps a bit too sharply. Nell looked cowed, if not entirely convinced and Anne tried to will the questions away. Harry would be King, as she had known since the day she had first heard the news of the Prince's birth. That was what God wanted, and it was what she wanted as well. Edward would make a weak King; better he be spared that.

At that very moment, the door to Anne's chambers burst open to reveal a distraught, pink-faced girl – Charlotte. She could not control her sobs as she stumbled across the threshold. All of the Queen's ladies stood at once and Anne herself closed her prayer book, fear gripping her heart again. _I do not want Edward to be King; oh please, God – I did not mean to doubt You…_ Surely it could not be Harry. He had recovered; she had seen him, awake and seemingly well once more, with her own eyes! What, then, could upset her so? Anne's eyes moved instinctively to Charlotte's own belly, but that did not seem to be amiss either. These were tears of sorrow, not cries of pain.

Before any of them had the opportunity to ask, the reason for her grief spilled from Charlotte's lips. They were private words, ones none of these women should be privy to, and Anne felt her stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. "Your Majesty – forgive me – Harry – Harry has…he has taken a woman, a _mistress_," the girl moaned.

Just in tie, Nan Saville was at Charlotte's side. She caught her before she fell, and past the haze of her dismay and confusion, Anne wondered why none of her own ladies had accompanied her. She set aside her prayers and remembered the twins, Nell staring wide-eyed at the spectacle, Edward looking merely uncomfortable. "Nan," she called, "the children." No more needed to be said. Having deposited the Princess of Wales in a chair by the fire to be fussed over by Anne's other women, Nan rushed to her mistress' side, curtsying to her. "Of course, Majesty." She took the young Prince's hand in one of hers, but Nell drew hers away, gazing up at her mother, looking curious once more and almost defiant.

"Mama –"

"Go with Lady Nan, now." Once again, Anne sounded harsher than she meant to, but she did not have time for her daughter's questions. Charlotte was not something to be gawked at and gossiped about. Anne knew all too well what she was enduring – or rather, she had once thought she had known. Henry had sworn to her he had not taken a mistress and she had believed him. That had been years ago now, but well did she remember the suffocating, debilitating pain of it. How had she discovered this so soon after the Prince's miraculous recovery?

With her children gone, Anne at last went to Charlotte's side. She was pale now, her face streaked with tears. To think, she had just been celebrating her husband being safely delivered from the shadow of death…

"Charlotte, _ma chere fille…_"

"He…he told me himself. He said God wanted him to do it, to…to confess his s-sins to m-me," Charlotte stammered, turning her eyes upon her stepmother-in-law. "He t-told me he had not seen her…not in months…b-but that he would visit her – from Ludlow." Ludlow, where they had lived together. Anne's stomach felt sour indeed. She had not believed Harry capable of such a thing. Even if he had not been as kind and welcoming to her as his sister when she had first married the King, Katherine's young son had always seemed a smart and noble boy. What was he playing at now, and why could his confession not have waited at least until his wife was safely delivered?

"He said he loved me, Your Majesty. B-but he was always lying. He l-loves that woman, not me. _Il aime_ _sa belle _Jane!"

Jane. Jane Seymour. _Oh Harry…_

Then in a steady, hard, almost detached voice, Charlotte added, "He loves her still more for bearing him a healthy son. I think he meant to keep that _sin_ to himself, but he could not but mention _sweet little Jack._" The Princess of Wales moved her hands to cover her growing belly as though she meant to keep the child within from hearing such things; Anne felt her heart break for the girl. Harry had had them all fooled, but he had never given his Lady Jane up at all.

Perhaps God's will deserved to be questioned far more thoroughly than Anne had previously thought.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: **I will probably add to this chapter in the future; you can almost count on it. However, I wanted to get something up - and today (though just barely...right now, it's almost midnight!) for obvious reasons, I think. So a happy birthday to Good Queen Bess, though in this case it is a rather different affair. Look for an addition to the chapter sometime in the future, but in the meantime, enjoy this thoroughly overdue (if somewhat rushed!) installment. Being that it IS rushed, please excuse any ugly mistakes.

* * *

**7 September**

The Queen of England was delivered of a healthy child! The news darted off across the palace almost at once, even before one of her ladies–the ever-faithful Nan Saville–ran to find the King. It was nice to have a change in the news and gossip that was buzzing about the court, though how long the royal birth could put them off of their new favorite scandal, no one could say. Ever since Prince Harry had nearly died, all anyone seemed to be able to talk about was his scandalous affair with Lady Jane Seymour. Jane had not come to court since news of said scandal broke, nor had anyone laid eyes on her much talked-about son John, yet it was as though they lingered around every corner and behind every tapestry. Everyone seemed enjoy dragging the ugly matter into the light again, no matter how much pain it caused the poor Princess of Wales or how much embarrassment it caused the King.

Sweet, good, noble Prince Harry, they whispered–Katherine of Aragon's only son, the godly woman, God bless her memory–an adulterer? That dear little French girl, to be shown up by an English harlot, How unfortunate for her. That was what they said, yet no one would let the matter drop. If they had truly cared for Charlotte's well-being, they would have. Instead, the fact that her husband had been unfaithful even whilst he claimed he loved her so dearly was flaunted at every turn. Anne felt incredibly bad for her stepdaughter-in-law's misfortune–and angry at her stepson.

Harry had, of course, apologized at length to his wife. In the end, things had not been properly resolved, however. It was a miracle that the girl had not miscarried. She had been so distraught and had asked repeatedly for her mother, though Queen Claude had been dead for years. She cursed Harry unkindly in both French and English, wrote long letters of complaint to her brothers and sisters (none of which, Anne suspected, had actually been sent), and spent so much time crying that it was a wonder her pretty face was not permanently swollen.

She had secluded herself from court life as much as possible, as though she truly was in mourning for her still-living husband or already in confinement. She was neither; her child would not come for perhaps another month and a half, according to the physicians, who spent much more time worrying about her than they did about Anne. She was not half as young as Charlotte, yet it had been made all too clear to her that no one was truly worried about her pregnancy. Even the King had relaxed. She supposed a decade had been enough to ease his mind about losing a wife to childbirth. It was for the best they attended Charlotte, of course. Aside from her emotional turmoil, the child was fragile at best.

As for Anne, everyone was praying that the Queen's child was a healthy son, and Anne herself was no exception. Though the Prince of Wales had lived, it did not seem to matter that his wife was also with child. There had been whispers for months now, mirroring the physicians' concerns, that the girl could not survive birthing a child–perhaps the baby could would not even survive it. No one said such things about the Queen. She had, after all, borne not one but _two _children at one time before and come out no worse for wear then. Either way, it would be best if Anne delivered another son…just in case.

Anne's brow was sweaty. The sheets of her great marriage bed were soiled. It had been a long time since she had delivered the twins and she had been younger then; she had forgotten how much energy labor drained from her body. Yet all her weariness and all her pain melted away as the warm little body of her baby was placed into her arms.

"Your Majesty has a beautiful daughter," the midwife said, a smile playing on her lips as she handed the infant over to her mother.

She _was _beautiful, Anne thought. Her hair, or what little hair she had, was downy and golden. Her fair skin was pale but rosy and her eyes, as she gazed curiously up at the new sights around her, were as blue as a clear summer sky. If she was any less lovely than her sister Eleanor someday, it would come as a surprise to Anne. She did not want to know, however, whether this baby would be a great beauty or not. She did not want any moment but this one. How she had longed for a baby in her arms again, and now her wish had been granted. Her daughter's life would be a light in the darkness of court. Her father would adore her. She would heal his heart. Anne had to believe that.

When she tore her eyes from the perfect, tiny face, Anne was surprised to find that Henry stood there already. She beamed at him, hoping that he would be able to clear his mind of the troubles that so often plagued it these days. It was not his fault that Harry had been a fool. He could only tell his son to mend his ways–and he had, before sending the boy packing to Ludlow without his heartbroken wife.

"We have a daughter," she murmured. "A little princess."

Henry said nothing as he crossed to her bedside. Had she seen his face fall? She, too, would rather have a son. Both of them knew Edward was not strong. Yet Edward was not the heir, not yet, and God willing he never would be. Ultimately, the Lord would guide them. If His will had been to give them a daughter. They could do nothing about it. They simply had to accept it.

Anne offered the child up to him reluctantly. She did not want to let her go, this daughter–her last child. She knew, or at least suspected, as much–she had even when she had been carrying her. She was not old, but nor was she young, an Henry's children were having children now. Mary would be a mother before too long herself, surely. If God chose to prove her suspicions wrong, she would be all too willing to welcome another child into their family. Yet for now, her thoughts belonged only to the little girl-child she had just brought into the world. She was a beautiful gift; she was, indeed, perfection itself. It was unfair, Anne supposed, to compare the feelings she had for her other children and those she now felt for this daughter. Still, she could not help but think that she was more attached to this baby, if only because she had longed for another for such a long time.

Slowly, looking as though he did not know what to do, Henry leaned down to accept the child. He shifted her uncomfortably in his arms, staring at her–was he expecting to see something other than what was there?

"I thought we might name her Elizabeth," Anne prompted softly.

"Elizabeth." A smile began to appear on Henry's face. It erased years, seeing him smiling–his eyes were suddenly brighter. His face was less grey. The lines in it, not as noticeable. Anne held her breath. She had deliberately chosen that name, his mother's name–_her_ mother's name–so that in the event that they had another daughter, he would have reason to rejoice. Queen Elizabeth had been very dear to her son, from what Anne had understood. She would make a good namesake for their daughter.

He raised his eyes to look at his wife now, who was looking tired despite her best efforts to seem otherwise. He smiled, slowly. She was trying, as she always tried, to ease his worries and fears and to make up for the folly of his eldest child.

"That is a fine name," he announced. "Princess Elizabeth. She will no doubt be a beauty, like her mother, someday."

"I would rather her be a fine scholar like her father," Anne countered, her arms outstretched as Henry returned the child into her arms. "Beauty can be a double-edged sword." She knew that all too well. Thomas Boleyn–her once-darling Papa, now languishing alone and near-forgotten, she supposed, in Kent–had once tried to sell his daughters based on their beauty. And in a way, her own daughters would be sold…though their value was political and international. Henry, unlike Anne's father, would not marry them off or send them to a man's bed simply for personal gain.

He smiled at the compliment. "Perhaps she shall be both. A scholar, a beauty…a force to be reckoned with!"

Anne smiled up at him; he bowed to her. It was too formal for her taste, but she could only imagine the tumultuous emotions he was enduring at that moment. "Thank you, my love," he said, and then in an instant he was gone. Elizabeth had certainly enjoyed a better reception than her sister and brother a decade before, but Anne's joy had been tempered. She gazed down at her newborn child and sighed. "He will love you, little Elizabeth. You will make him more proud than any of the rest." Anne did not know what made her say it – far be it from her to guess the Lord's intentions for this child. But it was, at least, something to think about.

* * *

"Her Majesty has invited you to visit her, Your Highness," one of Charlotte's ladies murmured to her, a Mistress Cecily. She offered the small note in an upturned palm for her mistress to take, and Charlotte did.

They had all been terribly cautious around her for months now, as though she was made of glass and would shatter if handled too roughly. It was true that the revelation of Harry's betrayal had taken its toll on her, but the King and Queen had been quite kind, and she did not feel altogether friendless. She had written a long letter to the Princess Mary, her sister-in-law twice over, asking that they be better friends if it was possible, though she had not been able to bring herself to mention Harry, his mistress or his bastard child. She had simply relished the opportunity to use her native tongue once more, making the best of it by describing her great happiness as the Princess of Wales–though that was not altogether true–and of her excitement to become a mother.

She had received a reply not long afterward, warm and sisterly indeed.

_To my dear sister Charlotte–_

_I offer you my deepest condolences, for my brother has written to me as well to tell me of the grievous wrong he has done you. I know how very disappointed you must be, dear Lottie. You have loved him truly, and have been mistaken about his character – as have I, his own sister! I am so very sorry that Harry has gone down this path, yet I can only pray that he will mend his ways, come back to you and make a great father to your coming child as well as a great King someday. I pray, also, that God sees you through the rest of your pregnancy safely and that you deliver a strong, healthy child._

_Your brother sends his love along with mine. I must tell you that we do have happy news–I am expecting a child as well, though no one else knows of it yet; only Henri and I, and now you as well, Lottie. I am sure your father will be pleased, and mine even more so! It is my dearest wish that someday, you will meet our child and I, yours. While I did not know my mother at all, I intend to be as sweet and kind and godly as the Queen has always been to us children._

_If I had the strength to write more, I would, but I confess that even now, this pregnancy has left me feeling weak indeed. Stay strong, dear sister, and may God bless you!_

_Marie, Duchesse d'Orleans_

The memory of that letter made Charlotte sad, for the news had come not long after that Mary had miscarried and lost her baby. She thanked God that neither she or the Queen had befallen the same fate; their children, it seemed, were both determined to come into the world. If only the world into which they would come was not so full of sadness and pain! The King's reaction to finding that he had lost a grandchild, his daughter's child, was subdued grief. She had never thought to see a man like King Henry laid low but over the past few months he had shed so many tears and looked so very grim and even old that now, she could hardly imagine him as the powerful, laughing man he had been before. He still cut an imposing figure, of course; he was not a man to be crossed. But something had changed.

Now the Queen was delivered, and that should please him, Charlotte thought, especially if her child was a son. Though Harry remained alive and her son–if her child was indeed a son–would supersede any child of Anne's in the succession, everyone had prayed that Her Majesty would nevertheless give birth to a healthy baby boy.

When she opened the note, however, it read of the birth of a girl-child called Elizabeth. The words were formal, dictated in a maid's hand, and she could not tell whether there was dismay or joy behind them. But what of the Queen herself – did she feel as though he had failed her husband and her country by bearing another daughter rather than a son? Would Charlotte feel such a way if she, too, gave birth to a princess?

The familiar stab of pain washed over her. _Harry already has a son – what use has he for another? _It was foolish to ask such a thing, of course. Harry's son was no good to England – he could never inherit his father's crown. Yet the very fact that he existed was proof enough, for Charlotte, that the boy Jane Seymour had borne was more important. He was Harry's firstborn. He had not been kept a secret, by any means, from the Prince of Wales. No indeed. All that time, her seemingly-loving husband had gone to Wiltshire and visited his boy, had looked upon him with love and pride in his eyes no doubt, before there had ever been a child growing within his wife's womb.

Yes, painful to think of it – more painful than it should have been. A wave of sharp, unfamiliar discomfort hit her then. Her small fingers curled around the note in her hand from the Queen. What was wrong with her? Or was it something wrong with her child? Was this God's warning…even his punishment?

_I am sorry, Lord, _she thought desperately as she felt a strange wetness against her thighs, as though she had lost control of her bladder. That thought brought a sob to Charlotte's throat. How humiliating! She could not endure such things, not here, not now. The Queen had called upon her. She needed to go – to move – to pretend like none of this was happening. Yet as she tried to move from that spot, she realized her skirts were damp. She felt the hot tears prick her eyes, and then another pain, stronger than the one before it, drove her to her knees. She cried out in dismay – in horror – in disgust –

"My lady! My lady, what is the matter –"

"Someone fetch Dr. Linacre – the physician –"

"No, a midwife…"

Surrounded by her ladies, some panicked and others calm, the Princess of Wales lay on the floor of her apartments and wept.

**10 September  
Ludlow Castle, Wales**

"Your Highness, news from Whitehall…"

One of Prince Henry Tudor's menservants presented him with a piece of parchment. It was folded and sealed so that he knew it was from his father – and perhaps in the man's own hand. He had heard, as had the whole country, that his stepmother's lying-in had begun days ago. She must now be delivered of her child. _Delivered of her child…_ Something stirred in Harry's stomach, making him feel nearly ill with guilt. He should never have told Charlotte about Jane.

No, perhaps he should never have taken up with Jane at all. But he loved her so! And Jack, darling sweet little Jack… Jack. Jack. His Jack! Not long after he had confessed to Charlotte, the truth about Jack had come out as well, and it had only made her more miserable. His father had been furious, and the Queen truly disappointed. He tried not to imagine Katherine's face, that dim memory of his beloved mother. What would she have thought of this, her only son and the future King, doing what he had done?

Yet now that it was done, now that he could not undo it, he had not even been given the opportunity to repent. Instead he was sent here, to Ludlow, sent here to wait. His wife did not want him, or else the physicians said she could not bear to have him near and he had already written Jane – and promised his angry father – that he would not travel to Wiltshire again.

He longed to. Foolish, of course, to think he loved little Princess Charlotte as much as he did his Jane. Or perhaps he could simply picture Jane more clearly in his mind. Either way, though thinking of either of them soured Harry's stomach, he dwelled more often on his country girl, the mother of his darling son. He had not been able to keep himself from writing again, from responding to her reports on Jack's development. How could he? The boy was his, as much as the child Charlotte would deliver. He was called a bastard, but he was so very loved by both Jane and Harry, and surely by God as well. Even if Harry had wronged his wife in Jack's conception, how could the boy himself be wrong? Harry could not imagine his son being anything short of a blessing, no matter how much his mere existence hurt the woman slated to someday be his Queen.

Still, he did not hate Charlotte. He had been happy with her, and she had been good and devoted. He did feel bad for his deception, for his betrayal, and since he could not live both lives, he would welcome the day when he could flee the shadows of both his mind and Ludlow Castle and return to his wife's side at court. With that hope in mind, the Prince broke the wax and opened the letter that had come, he assumed, from the King.

_Harry –_

_The Queen is safely delivered of a healthy baby girl and we have named her Elizabeth, but there is a more pressing matter that demands you return to London with all haste. The Princess Charlotte has also been delivered of a daughter. She and the child are both in fragile health, but she asks incessantly for you. The physicians say it would be better, in any case, that you come to her. _

_Make quick work of your return and Godspeed._

_H. Rex_

It was frantically written and indeed in the King's own hand, and Harry knew why. The King of England knew this feeling, of losing a wife in childbed. To think that Charlotte, the girl who had been so enamored of him and the girl he had come to love as well, should die in the same way his mother had, and after all he had put her through, was nearly too much for Harry. He dropped the letter and dashed outside, nearly tripping and falling on his way to the stables. He would get to London – and if Charlotte were to die, it would be, God willing, with her unworthy husband by her side.

* * *

_Remember to leave a review!_


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N:** Hi guys! I know you've been waiting a long time for a chapter, and I hope this is satisfactory. Thank you all for bearing with me and being so patient. You're really why I keep writing!

**March 1536  
****Whitehall**

They were technically there on an official state visit, but Mary Tudor, the Duchess of Orleans, knew better. She had simply begged her husband to return to the place of her birth, the country she still truly considered _hers._ She was not sure, even now, whether Henri had wished to make her happy–or else to silence her pleas. He was not a cruel man, this husband of hers, nor a hard one. Yet even after all these years, Mary could not tell if he loved her. Perhaps if she had given him a child, he would, but though she came from a fertile-enough line and now had a pair each of brothers and sisters, Mary's womb had produced no living male heirs. The situation was not necessarily dire. Henri was not the Dauphin, his brother Francois was. Yet she knew she had long since been judged, by her father-in-law the King if by no one else, for having yet had a living child–judged and found wanting.

Her inability to bear her husband an heir was, of course, distressing to her. Mary so desperately wanted a child of her own. She prayed constantly for a miracle, yet God did not seem to hear her. She could not imagine why He would wish to deny her a child, why she would not make a fine mother–was she not named for that same virtuous lady who had borne the Lord herself? She was no Blessed Virgin, but surely a healthy baby was not too much to ask.

As happy as she was to be at home again–in London, in her father's court–Mary doubted their visit was helping either she or Henri forget their plight.

Her youngest sister, little Princess Elizabeth, had just turned two the previous autumn. She was a sunny child with golden-red hair and eyes brilliant and blue. They were precocious eyes, ones which should not have belonged to a girl so young, but it made her all the more endearing. It seemed that she was adored by nearly everyone, and was the only royal child living at court, despite her youth.

Eleanor and Edward had been invited to stay at Whitehall to reunite with their elder sister, though they did not know Mary well. They were thirteen now, yet neither of them were promised to anyone. They still lived together at Hatfield. Mary could not help but wonder what would become of them. Edward was, even now, a thin, pale, fragile thing. She doubted he had ever held a sword or bow in his hand. Young Eleanor's beauty already stole one's breath, the dark twin, still devoted to her quiet brother.

As for her second brother, her eldest brother, her own mother's only son…

Mary did not know what to make of Harry anymore.

Princess Charlotte, his little French bride, had lived through her ordeal. Mary remembered it well, for she had received accounts from father, stepmother, and brother alike. Only the Queen had been optimistic, cautiously so – and she had been correct. Charlotte was alive. The child, however, the infant girl, had not lived.

The prognosis had been grim as well; Charlotte would not survive another pregnancy, the physicians said, if she was able even to conceive again.

Clearly, she had been able to do that much, for now the girl was cloistered in her apartments at Whitehall, five months into a second pregnancy, already on bedrest for fear of miscarrying or delivering her child early. She received few visitors, according to the Queen; the royal family were themselves sometimes turned away. Henri had been admitted at once, of course, and welcomed with open arms. He had described his sister as "rosy-cheeked" and "bright-eyed," so perhaps the physicians, and Charlotte herself, were simply being over-cautious. After all, if the Princess of Wales had been told she may be unable to conceive any more children but had, and Mary herself was in perfect health and had conceived only once…

Something else was bothering her. She had heard tell that heresy was spreading in England like wildfire and that her father was doing nothing to stand in its way. Good Cardinal Wolsey had died several years ago, before the birth of her little sister Elizabeth, in fact; but why, if dear Sir Thomas and other like-minded, devout men had the King's ear, was he not behaving more like an upright Catholic prince? She had tried discussing her concerns with her husband, but Henri had made it clear that he was disinterested in such matters. Protestants, he said, he did not see as a threat – to France, certainly; as for England, it pained her to know that he had less care still for her beloved homeland.

The worst part of all of it was, however, the whispers about her stepmother. People said she owned a Bible in English that she read forbidden books, and that she, not the King's advisors, was responsible for his attitude towards heretics in England.

Mary did not know how she could believe such vile things about a woman she knew to be good and devout; Anne was a loving mother, and had been even before she had given birth to a child by the King. They had drifted apart, it was true, since then, but how fondly Mary remembered those days before her father's remarriage when the then-Lady Anne would dote on her as she imagined Queen Katherine would have, had she lived.

No, they were surely lies.

Yet Mary was uneasy. She was not sure whether to speak to Anne about such matters and confirm that the rumors were vicious and untrue or to leave well enough alone. Secretly, she feared that they might be true after all. She would rather not know. If the Queen herself was a heretic, what would become of her soul – her children's souls? The King's? She shuddered to think.

The children's. Mary felt suddenly melancholy. What if she never had a child? Would Henri cast her off? Every man wanted a son to inherit after him; her father had two, even her brother!

Her brother…

She recalled with dismay the conversation she had had with him upon their reunion. He spoke with great passion about his son, a boy called John – "Jack," as Harry had said frequently. He had not stopped writing to the Seymours, despite returning to his wife's side as he had been ordered by their father. He had, at least, refrained from visits to Wiltshire – or so he claimed – and thus he had not seen the child in years, not since he had recovered from his jousting wound, and it was clear to anyone who spoke with him that he pined for both Jack and for the boy's mother. How his infatuation must wound poor Lottie, Mary thought in dismay.

"_He is three now, you know," Harry said. His tone was wistful. "Three years old, and I haven't laid eyes upon him since he was just a babe in arms…oh, Mary, you would love him, I know it. Everyone would, if only Father let me bring him to court."_

_How horrible, that suggestion! There was good reason, Mary was sure, for keeping the boy away from court – the boy and his mother. The King had no desire for a scandal, but more importantly, there was Charlotte to consider. Too well did Mary remember the letters – from Harry, then from his bride – first confessing the affair, the existence of a child…and then Lottie's early delivery and the death of her infant girl._

"_Do not look at me that way," he said, and he himself looked wounded by the hardness in Mary's blue eyes._

"_Taking Lady Jane –" A shadow passed across his face upon hearing the name – "to your bed was wrong, Harry," she said with a shake of her head. "After you met Charlotte – "_

_He cut her off, looking angry now. "I know what I said when I met Charlotte! What would anyone have said? It was different, Mary, when I saw her there, still just a little girl…it was almost as though we were in France again, as though she was still that child I'd met then. She was frightened, of course, and…Mary, I cannot explain myself to you, or to anyone. I could not abandon her once she was before me; it was so simple when she was a mere idea… But Jane, Mary, I love her. I have loved her since I was a boy."_

His words had not moved Mary's heart. They were only that to her: words. If Harry had not truly wished to abandon his wife, frightened child that she had been and in many ways, that she remained, he would not have taken up with Jane again.

And if he truly loved Jane, he would have married her as he had insisted upon doing.

Yet she was only his sister; she could not judge him too harshly. God alone would do that. And as for her husband… Mary preferred not to think of it, but she knew that more often than not, he left her side to visit the other woman, the woman named for a pagan goddess, the woman he all but worshipped, leaving his childless wife to kneel and pray for his soul when she was done pleading with the Lord to make life stir within her womb.

"Mary might not be – "

At that moment, Mary looked up from her embroidery. She knew she could have visited the Queen or her sisters, or Charlotte, or even Harry, and perhaps if she had, she would be spending her time in England – precious little of it that there was – more wisely. Instead, she sat here consumed with her thoughts, but it seemed she was destined to be interrupted.

Princess Eleanor entered the room then, carrying Elizabeth – rather precariously, from the looks of it. The little girl ought to have had her arms wrapped tightly around her sister's neck, for if the Queen's darling tumbled to the ground, there would be hell to pay, no doubt. Instead, she was already reaching one chubby hand out towards her elder sister.

"Mawy," she said, and then to Eleanor, "Nell, down."

How imperious she sounded, Mary thought, like a little Queen already! Surely the beautiful Eleanor would have felt resentment towards being treated like a servant by a girl eleven years her senior if Elizabeth had not been so precious, adored by one and all, by every faction, by every critic of the Queen, Prince Harry, the Catholic Church – everyone, it seemed to Mary, was enchanted by her sister.

What would become of her? The King had not yet arranged a marriage even for Nell, who was of the proper age. Yet did Mary not envy her, too? She was unburdened by the future, not doomed to marry in just two years, to bid her childhood and her parents and the siblings she loved farewell forever. For all her beauty, Nell Tudor was still just a girl – a princess, but a child. Mary had long ago become a woman, and she longed sometimes – often – to return to Hatfield and to her youth…or else, oh God or else, to bear a child!

Elizabeth now crossed the floor to toddle the open arms of the sister she barely knew. Mary pulled her into a tight hug, holding her close, kissing the top of her golden head. To have a child of her own to hold like this!

Perhaps on that day, if ever it came, she would understand Harry's love for his son Jack.

Jack! To think that the King had a grandson older than his beautiful little daughter, only two, and yet still he was a boisterous and loving father…Elizabeth's infancy and toddler years were certainly happier than Mary's. Rather than be shut away, she had remained at court, and all there were enamored of her. The Queen cherished her and had called her, to Mary, her last child. The King visited her apartments often, and when she ran squealing to him – so the Queen had also told her – he would toss her up in the air and catch her again, safe in his arms, giggling like a mad thing.

Bessie, he called her, _my Bessie, my sweetheart, my rose._

_Papa, do you not remember that I was once your pearl? _

Mary held Elizabeth more tightly.

Meanwhile, Nell had begun to examine one of Mary's gowns which had been laid out across a chair. It needed hemming, or something of the sort, but her sister did not notice. She ran her fingers along the tiny seed-pearls of the bodice, seemingly transfixed.

All was peaceful for a while; Nell had become distracted by a book of French psalms. Mary's ladies were busy with their stitching or reading or whatever it was they did all day, and Mary was humming a song in French to Elizabeth, whose lids were growing heavy and who had rested her head against Mary's shoulder. For a few moments, she could pretend as though Elizabeth were her own little girl, _Marie _or _Sophie _or _Marguerite…_

One of the Queen's ladies slipped in with nearly silent footsteps, so that when she stopped in front of Mary and curtsied, the young woman was taken rather by surprise.

She presented a note to her from the Queen, one that looked quite brief and hastily scribbled.

_Come quickly. Charlotte and your husband are asking for you. _It was in the Queen's hand, but said nothing more, offered no more information, not even a hint… Yet Mary was certain it could be nothing good. She felt her stomach turn a little, for if Henri was asking for her, too… She laid the note aside and lifted her sleepy little sister into her arms. Elizabeth protested by turning her face into Mary's shoulder. She smiled faintly – poor innocent child! She then gave her into the care of her mother's lady, trusting she would see her safely back to the royal nursery. Then, swallowing hard, she set out to find the Princess of Wales.

**26 March**

Prince Harry and his father were arguing. Two days had passed since the funeral of Charlotte de Valois, the Princess of Wales, who had miscarried her second pregnancy – another girl, said the midwives, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues sadly as they curtsied to King, Prince, and _Duc_ and left. The court had donned its mourning attire for the second time in less than two decades, though this time their quiet whispers and lowered eyes were in honor of the girl who was supposed to have been Queen rather than the woman who was.

It had been two days since the funeral; nearly a week since Charlotte's death. Harry, knowing many would condemn him for it, was saddened but not heartbroken. Indeed, sad though the loss of his frail young wife was, he could not help but see the light it let into his life. The light – it had a name. _Jane, Jane, Jane._

Now, he could wed Jane – in due time, of course. He had married the foreign princess; he had set aside his true love and their son for her. But God had taken Charlotte to a better place, and now, Harry could do what his father had done fifteen years ago. He could take a simple, beautiful English girl as his bride and someday, he could make her his Queen. Their little son, dear little Jack, would be the Prince of Wales, and all would love him, as his father had loved him all these years. When he looked at his sister Elizabeth, that beautiful golden child, he could not keep from feeling a pang of grief. Elizabeth was doted upon and adored by all, but he loved Jane as much as his father loved the Queen; he loved and, given the chance, would dote upon his son just as his father doted upon Elizabeth!

The ceremony could not be held as soon as he would have liked, of course. Harry had both a heart and a sound mind. It would appear truly heinous were he to marry another woman while the shadow of his tragic little bride still fell upon the short. He would not put it off _too _long, however. In what shame and loneliness Jane must be living and raising their boy! It was unconscionable. He must rescue them.

When he had brought the idea to his father, however, the King had not liked it at all. Perhaps if Jane had been childless, he would have been more willing to accept her – dishonored as she was – as a daughter-in-law and the future Queen of England.

"People know of the boy now, Harry," the King said sternly, giving his son a hard look. "They know you fathered a bastard on the girl. You can wed her, but the boy will still be a bastard – being a prince's bastard is small comfort, I would think."

"Father, he is our son," Harry entreated. "Were I to marry – "

"Were you to marry her, Harry, do you know what people would say? They would say someone, mayhap the Seymours themselves, mayhap even _you, _poisoned or otherwise compromise Princess Charlotte. They would claim that your Lady Jane or her family or yes, even the Prince of Wales, would rather see his bastard son upon the throne someday than a lawfully born child by a good woman of royal blood. Even if I – even if the Church, which is less likely still – called your bastard legitimate and called him a Prince, he would never be able to take the throne. Do you understand?"

His tone was so simple, as though he was explaining something to Edward – to Elizabeth, even! It infuriated him. How he would love to – to –

"I am no longer a child, Your Majesty," he said coldly. "I can look after my own reputation – and that of my family."

The King's hand came slamming against the desk with a loud crash. It made even Harry jump. The look upon his father's face was dark, angry, now. If he was not arguing from the depths of his heart, Harry would likely have given in and abandoned his request.

"Then prove it, Harry – stop behaving as though you are a child! Mary, you do not hear her pining; you do not hear your sister shirking her duty. _We _are your family, we and no other. I do not care about your bastard in Wiltshire – "

"His name is _John,_" Harry interceded, angry now as well. "And he is your grandson!"

"What good is a bastard grandson to the King of England?" his father demanded, looking impatient. Clearly, he had had his fill of this argument already, and seemed rather baffled that his son continued to argue it in the first place. Harry knew he hated to be challenged or defied. The choice to do so had been dangerous, but it had been done – for the sake of Jane and their son, he would do it again.

"One is more grandsons than you have now," he replied evenly.

The King's face was flush with anger now. With that statement, had he gone too far?

Silence passed between them for several long moments. The air was stagnant, hot, oppressive. What would the King say? What could he say? What reprimand could Harry expect?

The words the King finally uttered were short; his tone, controlled. "You cannot marry Lady Jane Seymour. That is all I have to say on the matter. I do not wish to be troubled with it a second time."

"Father –"

"Harry, enough! I am your King first, and I have –"

"Father, I love her! You love the Queen, do you not? You loved my mother!"

His mother. The subject of Queen Katherine was still taboo at court. Even Eleanor, curious soul that she was, had learned quickly not to inquire too much about the lady who had once been Queen before her mother. He watched the scarlet anger drain from his father's cheeks, saw the hollowness creep into his blue eyes. He shuddered when the King turned those eyes upon him.

"I have failed your mother," he said softly. "Look what her son has become."

Harry felt stricken. He wanted to leave, now; he regretted mentioning his mother, dead these twenty years, and bringing the ghost of the past into the present. Would that dear woman approve of her son's love, or would she see him as a godless, impious boy?

Could Katherine, his mama, of whom he had only the vaguest memories, think that of anyone?

"Your mother and the Queen have given me five legitimate children, five children that the people and God can love without guilt or stain. You have given them nothing, only a child born of your own lust and lack of self-control and indecision."

"Your Majesty, I beg of you, let me do this. The circumstances of his birth do not matter," Harry said, feeling his hope slipping away and turning into desperation. A miserable king would make a poor one indeed in the future, and without Jane, he would surely be miserable! For a while he had been content with Charlotte and her company, but he could not deny nor ignore his heart. It pined for that fair-haired English lady far away in the country. "I will make him into a fine prince, one for them to love – for you to love."

"No," the King said firmly. "Your Wiltshire bastard will never sit on my throne, Harry. I would sooner see Elizabeth crowned!"

Those words stung like a slap. The condescension in them, and not just towards little Jack, disgusted him. What did it matter about Jack's being a "bastard," if he could undo the stigma? And as for Elizabeth, she was a beloved and precocious child. She would make as fine a Queen as he would a King someday, though none could truly imagine a woman on the throne by her own right. The King, who adored her and called her his "rose," did he truly think of so little of her? Elizabeth because of her sex, Edward because of his birth... His father was a cruel and thoughtless man. How had he never seen it before? To thus deride his own beloved child!

Hatred clung to his voice as icicles did to gables in the dead of winter. "I will have Jane as my wife, Father, and you cannot stand in my way."

"Jane Seymour will never be the Queen of England." The King's words were spoken with the authority of a god's.

"I will marry her," Harry repeated.

For a horribly long heartbeat, for a breath, the King looked as though he might weep, as though the words had caused him a terrible pain, as though he was undergoing an internal struggle. _This was how Christ looked when he was betrayed, _Harry thought suddenly, _or else how Judas looked once the deed was done._

"I am the King. I must think first of the good of the kingdom," he said, speaking slowly. "England has seen enough of war, Harry. Your Lady Jane must never become Queen, nor your bastard King. If I must disinherit you, I shall."

Their eyes met. The King – had he ever seen eyes so sad? _Yet he has brought this upon himself! He could simply grant his permission, and we would be wed, and all would be well._

"I love her."

"Then ride to your lady in Wiltshire, if you will, and farewell."

He was clearly being dismissed, and he did not need to be told a second time. Part of him wished to apologize, or to embrace his father, but he could do neither; his love was surely God-given, his intentions pure. If he was to be disowned and disinherited, so be it. "Your Majesty," he muttered, and wondered as he backed out of the audience chamber if the back of his father's head would be the last he ever saw of the King of England, and if he would ever again stand in this room, perhaps wearing the crown rather than bowing to it.

**2 April  
****Wulfhall, Wiltshire**

He had returned to her. Her beloved had returned to her! Jane's very blood sang. She hardly cared that he had come after quarreling with his father and that he had no one's blessing to be at Wulfhall. She cared about nothing, really, other than the fact that Harry had returned to her – and more importantly still, to Jack. She had, and everyone had, heard of the death of Princess Charlotte. Prayers had been said for the princess' soul in Wiltshire as everywhere. Yet Jane, far from feeling sad, had wondered if there was not hope for them yet. Even her dear father had seemed renewed, though both he and Edward had warned her that it was best not to hope for anything at all. It was likely that, after two years and a little more, the Prince of Wales had forgotten her as all but a courtesy.

Now, she knew better. Harry wished to marry her, indeed he insisted upon it. She would, he said, be his bride – this time, this time he meant it. This time, he would not feel obligated to the little French girl with her big blue eyes. This time, he would think of his little boy and his heart would know that it was home only when it resided with them.

Jane knew she was being selfish. She knew anyone would be fortunate to have the affection of a Prince, and that hoping he would marry her at the expense of losing his title and right to the throne was absurd. She knew the King (Harry had recounted most of what had passed between himself and King Henry before he had come to Wulfhall) was not incorrect in claiming that a marriage would not free Jack of the stigma he suffered as a bastard, nor would it clear his mother's name entirely either.

Was it truly selfish to wish for what nearly all women enjoyed – a husband, a respectable life, a true family? Jane had never wished to be Queen. She had told Harry that long ago. If the King refused to let Jack take the throne when Harry died – if the people refused – then she would be wounded a little, for the sake of her brilliant, handsome child. Yet would he not have a better life this way? Why throw him into the fire? Why make him listen to such accusations?

He was so sweet, her baby boy. _Mama, why do you always look so sad? Mama, do not cry. You have me, Mama._ How she wept when she saw him, held him in her arms, when he spoke to her in that darling way! She wept because she was blessed to have him, bastard though he was called. She wept, for she had feared he may never again meet his papa.

Yet now, they were a family, whatever the King said. Not even the King could take that away from her. These days were precious, and she would never let them go, even if, somehow, Harry as taken from her again and they lived only in her memory.

He adored Jack more than she had imagined possible. Of course he had doted upon the boy as an infant, but now he could walk and talk and run about, and sometimes he was quite a little wild thing. It was the Tudor blood, she thought, showing itself. He certainly did not resemble his papa much, but oh, seeing them together warmed Jane's heart! It had taken Jack some time to accept that this was indeed his father, of whom Mama spoke so often; then he was not sure how to speak to him, since Mama had oftentimes also said he was the King's son.

Now, though, after only a few days, the two were inseparable, a perfect pair! Harry played with Jack's toy soldiers with him, told him stories, and rode on horseback around the Wulfhall gardens with one arm protectively around the boy's middle. He treated him as a true son, and in the night, he promised Jane with sweet words and sweeter kisses that someday, he would be their true son.

"He already is, in the eyes of God," Harry added. Harry knew more about God than she did. Why should she not believe it? Why should God not love her little son?

It would be said that they lived in sin now, of course. Perhaps there was already scandal in London. If so, they received no letters ordering Harry back to Whitehall. They received no word at all, in fact. It was almost as if they were forgotten there, and Jane half-hoped it was true. She did not want people gossiping about her, or her innocent little child. What did they know? How could they ever imagine how she'd daydreamed, and forever scolded herself, only to find that the Prince of Wales loved her just as she loved him? They would never understand. She did not want them to. Those memories and that knowledge were precious to her. She had never even admitted her fantasies to Harry.

And she couldn't, now, for they had been of a grand royal wedding with a smiling King and Queen. They had not been of a simple country wedding, which is what they would surely have eventually, with a three-year-old already in tow. Yet she would not, in truth, change her circumstances if she could – not if it meant giving up Jack, having him be raised by others. She cherished him more than anything else in the world…more even than Harry!

Their sins would be made right soon. Harry would be her husband, and though she may not be called the Princess of Wales, as long as she could lay in his arms and call him _hers, _truly hers, and know he did not have to ride back to Ludlow and into the bed of a French girl…

"A rider arrived today," Harry was saying. They stood in the nursery while Jane, having dismissed his nurse as she so often did, was undressing Jack for the evening. She was only half-listening. Riders often came and went from Wulfhall, usually asking for shelter for the night, or else there to see Sir John or one of his sons.

When she said nothing and did not inquire, he went on, "He was a rider from court…he had a message from the King."

This got Jane's attention. She looked up. Perhaps the King had changed his mind and realized how foolish it was to throw his son away simply because he wished to marry for love, as the King himself had done. Perhaps he would let them marry, let Jane be the Princess of Wales, let their son become a prince. She could see it all there before her…but she stopped herself before she got too enthusiastic. Harry's tone and his face belied such happy news. Though she had decided long ago that she was not care even if they had to flee the country – as long as Harry was by her side, as long as Jack had a father, she would be happy.

"What does he say?" she prompted.

"He says that I am banished from court," Harry replied, slowly. "My brother Edward is to be named the Prince of Wales in my stead…if I choose to marry you."

Jane realized how monumental this message from the King was. She did not think that she was really giving up the future kingship, or bringing dishonor on Harry's name. Yet it seemed so cruel and so closed-minded…so hypocritical, indeed! Jane remembered so clearly the time before the King had married the Lady Anne Boleyn, how she had thought her the best and most beautiful woman alive, and how it was so good of the King to take an English bride.

Why could Harry not do the same, in due time? She knew they would have to wait, for the sake of propriety; not even Jane wished to marry before Princess Charlotte's body was cold, but all the same…

Nothing more was said. As Jane tucked their boy into bed, smoothing his blonde hair tenderly, she wondered what was going through his mind and what his decision would be. He had made her a promise, but he was also the Prince of Wales; he had a duty to England, a duty that she did not know how he could neglect for anything, even for her. Everyone had heard of the frailness of young Prince Edward… if Harry stayed by her side, would it not have consequences for England?

She watched him as he leaned over and kissed Jack's forehead, however, and did not know how she would live if she lost him once and for all.

**Whitehall**

Scandal was loose in Whitehall. It made Anne's head pound. The Prince of Wales had fled court, and the King had quarreled with him, in the wake of his young wife's death. Not everyone knew or suspected, even, that the Prince had gone to Wiltshire to see his mistress and bastard child. What they did think, she was not altogether sure, but the name _Katherine_ had been on everyone's lips of late, alongside _Charlotte, _and Anne feared what it would do too the King. She knew he had technically buried Katherine long ago, and that her name could no longer be used to paralyze him as it had once. All the same…

His decision to disinherit his son, his beloved, handsome, virile son, was a questionable one at best, in Anne's eyes. If he had sought her advice beforehand, she would have tried to temper his response, his anger, and reminded him as best she could that though they loved Edward…

Edward. Her beautiful boy, just thirteen and always somewhat ill, not strong at all, hardly able to lift a bow or a sword, it seemed, if he had even been given the opportunity to try such a thing… Her Edward, whom she feared every day may not live to see the next. Illness was unforgiving, and though he had escaped his month-long trial as a child, anything could happen now.

How would he ever be a proper King? How would he inspire his people? Oh, she loved her son with all her heart, but Eleanor would make a better Queen than her brother would a King!

She could scold him for overlooking this and passing over Harry because of his desire to marry the mother of his bastard. Anne knew that. She had half a mind to. Perhaps eventually, Henry would come around and admit that his decision had been foolish. He would send a messenger to Harry and reverse it. He would allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he chose, with the understanding that his eldest son by Jane Seymour would never be able to take the throne and that only sons she bore to him afterwards would be eligible.

Such a union would have to wait until the Duc d'Orleans and his wife had returned to France, of course. Henri seemed a good man to Anne, and truly shaken by the death of his beloved sister. She had not seen much closeness between husband and wife before Charlotte's sudden death, but now, when she saw Mary, she saw Henri as well, and vice-versa. Anne knew of her stepdaughter's fears about being unable to bear children, but she was still young, and there was hope for her marriage. She had smiled to see Mary walking in the gardens, arm-in-arm with her husband, joking in French and making him smile. It had not been a marriage for love, as hers had been, but the two of them did not seem unhappy. There was hope for them.

As for her own marriage, Anne had no fears for it; she did fear for her husband in this state, however. There had been distance between them in the past months – Henry had listened with interest to her discussion of new religious ideas, and indeed was now devouring the books she had offered him. That had been a relief. But this intellectual closeness left something to be desired.

Her husband and her King was also her lover; he needed her now.

It was late, and Henry had not come to bed. He was pacing instead, muttering about his son. "Henry," she said softly, adopting the same tone she used when she spoke to her children and wanted their attention. He did not look at her, nor stop his pacing.

"Henry," she repeated, "nothing is going to change tonight. You cannot deny yourself sleep for your son's sake."

This time, she earned a sideways glance from the King. He paused. Anne raised one slender brow – would he deny it? Harry was not going to come riding up to the gate of Whitehall in the dark, nor could Anne change his mind about disinheriting the boy this late. She would not have even tried. He was too strung up about the matter as it was. He would make himself ill with worry and anger before much longer, she feared, and then where would they be?

Anne opened her arms to him. She sat on the bed with her legs tucked underneath her. This nightgown, she thought suddenly, was the same one – or at least of the same design – that she had worn on their wedding night so many years ago now. Would he remember such a thing? _Does he even care?_

The fire burned low in the hearth, and it was nearly dark apart from the moonlight. It played against the sheets of their great marriage bed in such a way that they could have been underwater, with the sun throwing dim, dappled light upon them. Anne's skin and the silk gown both shone faintly in the pale light. She knew she was not as young as once she had been, but in that moment, she felt beautiful – she felt like a Queen. She could ease her husband's pain, if only he would come to her, as he had once. If only he could remember that she had been there for him in the past, and could be again…

Henry did come to her then. He had stared at her for several long, silent minutes, and as he drew closer, she could see his face more closely – she could see his eyes. It was as though he was enchanted, as though he was in a daze. She still had that power. It was an intoxicating feeling, and she smiled in triumph. Despite all the years, all the heartache, Henry's heart still belonged to her.

Katherine's ghost could not steal him from her, even now.

"Lay aside your troubles tonight, my love," she murmured, touching his cheek as he settled himself on the bed.

Henry's eyes closed. He must be weary, she thought, poor man. How she loved _him_, even now. Sometimes she forgot. Being Queen had been in many ways better and less frightening than she had thought it might be initially, but she could not truly forget that she had only acquiesced and married him because she could not overcome her heart. She could not turn her back on him for fear of being Queen. She was as much his as he was hers; Henry and Henry only held her heart, and time could not change that feeling.

"I know that you are angry," she continued. "I know that you feel lost and betrayed by Harry. I know you fear for Edward, and the future. Believe me, Henry – I know those fears as well."

Shifting herself on the bed, An

ne knelt above him. She caressed his face with slender, gentle fingers. His eyes remained closed, and she wondered for a moment if he was so weary that he had fallen asleep. No, no, for he had taken her other hand, entwined their fingers. She went on.

"But you have the power – we have the power – to right these wrongs. We can repair the damage done."

His eyes opened; he seemed…puzzled?

"We can make a prince, my love," she said then, though she had long considered Elizabeth their last child. The point was to ease her husband's troubled mind, but – was it impossible? Surely not… "A prince for Enland…"

Henry pulled her down, then, crushing her against his body, and kissed her. It was a fierce, fearful, passionate kiss; it reminded her how insecure he was, but also how dearly he loved her, and she him, even now. As the fire faded to embers in the hearth and the moon moved across the sky, leaving their bedchamber in total darkness, the King and Queen were one, and neither had thoughts of Harry or Princess Charlotte or Jane Seymour – they thought and dreamed, for a few precious hours, of nothing but each other.

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